“You’re going to stay here,” she said sternly. “I don’t care what someone has instructed you to do.”
The spell glared at her belligerently, but she expected nothing less.
She looked up at Acair. “Please don’t die.”
He looked as if she’d just kneed him in the gut. “Stop that,” he said hoarsely. “Any more of those maudlin sentiments and you’ll destroy not only my house but my poor self with your magical stylings.”
She couldn’t argue with that, but trying to remain calm was more difficult than she wanted to admit. She imagined they would have perhaps the space of a single heartbeat to leap to safety before that spell of death fell on him and slew him, never mind how well her own attempt at containing it might work. She stood where Acair advised her to, assuming it would be but a single step through to safety, then she looked at his spell.
She resisted the urge to cross her fingers, then simply repeated the words the stable lad had given her. At the same moment, she heard Acair say something that she assumed was the key to opening the shield over his house.
She realized abruptly that no matter how well her spell of containment worked on grain, it didn’t have quite the same effect on that dreadful spell there. The beast lunged for Acair, its shadowy hands stretching out toward him—
She stepped in front of him and heard something snap. Someone made a noise of pain. She didn’t realize until she found herself on the ground, half sprawled over a black mage who was still breathing, thankfully, that the person crying out had been her.
She sat up and looked down.
Her forearm was bent in a way it shouldn’t have been.
“Don’t move.”
Acair’s voice sounded very far away. She had some sympathy for Mansourah of Neroche and his broken arm. How he’d managed to ride all the way to Acair’s mother’s house to have her heal it for him, she surely didn’t know. She felt something cold start at the base of her spine and work its way up toward her head.
She watched Acair take off his cloak, shredded as it had been into nothing but tatters, and make a sling out of it. He looked at her.
“You could faint, if you liked.”
“You could knock me out, if you liked.”
“I would never strike a woman. Here, hold on. We’ll go inside, then see to fixing this.”
She didn’t want to ask him how. The pain in her arm was blinding, though she realized she was starting not to feel anything else. She looked at his spell of death and thought it might have looked slightly apologetic. She imagined she might want to have words with it later about perhaps selecting other victims.
Acair bent, lifted her carefully in his arms, then walked to the front door.
“Are we safe?” she managed, starting to feel herself slipping into darkness.
“Perfectly. Trust me.”
She wondered if he would be gratified to know she did.
Nine
Acair had had many women swoon artfully into his arms, but never in his life had one done so thanks to a terribly broken arm she’d earned whilst about the business of saving his sorry arse. Truly, things had to change before he was fit company only for that collection of banished elves Ehrne of Ainneamh left weeping at his front gates.
“I can walk,” Léirsinn said through gritted teeth.
“I’m certain you can,” he said, “but allow me the pleasure of carrying you just this once.”
He nudged the door open with his knee, almost going sprawling thanks to that damned Sianach bolting into the house in feline form, then carried Léirsinn inside. He shut the door behind them with his foot and strode toward the kitchen, not stopping to light any lamps. He knew his way around well enough in spite of how seldom he found himself there.
He was beginning to think that needed to change.
“And you’re certain we’re safe,” she said faintly.
“Perfectly,” he said, refraining from pointing out that she’d already asked. He honestly couldn’t blame her for being worried, but he knew what sort of spell covered his home. “No one will enter. In fact, I’m not sure anyone but Soilléir knows I live here.”
“No long lines of beautiful women waiting outside to beg for your attentions?”
