She’d half expected that Kyla wouldn’t arrive at their agreed-upon meeting place, but no, she was there, swathed in a cloak, looking miserable. When she’d unlocked the door, fog rolled into the quiet, dark kitchen, along with a gust of ice-cold air.
Kyla had looked at her, sad-eyed and miserable.
“Are ye sure about this?”
The simple answer was, no. No, she wasn’t sure, but she also had no intention of backing out.
Freya’s foot caught on a tree root. She stumbled, but didn’t fall, taking a moment to steady herself and regain her breath. The cold pressed in urgently, biting through her too-thin cloak and through the worn leather of her boots.
Am I lost? No, I’m not lost. Am I nearly there? Can’t remember. It’s just a little further. I’ll see it. I’ll see it, won’t I?
She gritted her teeth and hurried on, head down. Fog billowed around her, and if she glanced back over her shoulder, a swathe had been cut through the mist, meandering behind her, tracing her path. Even as she watched, she saw it close up again, fluid and unstoppable as water.
Just a little further.
She hadn’t seen a soul on her way here—unsurprising, since it was the dead of night—but she lived in fear of running into someone. This was the time of night when dangers abounded, and “proper” women didn’t stir out of doors.
And then, quite abruptly, she found herself in the clearing in front of Brendan’s barn.
Progress.
She stumbled through the woods, and there it was. His house.
It was a cottage, really, low-roofed and squat, trees pressing in around it. She paused, a cold sensation running through her. No lights were on inside—not surprising, considering the late hour—but there was something else, something wrong.
The door. The front door is open.
She took a step towards the house, and a flurry of barking broke out from inside. A rangy gray dog came hurtling out of the open door, ears pressed back and body stiff.
“Argentum,” she gasped, remembering the dog’s name with an effort. “What’s up, lad? Eh?”
The dog paused, ears going up as he recognized her, and his whip-like tail began to wag. He pranced forward, body wiggling, and pressed up against her legs. She scratched behind his ears, and he whined happily. Abruptly, he moved away, taking a few steps towards the house, and glanced back expectantly.
The sense of unease deepened.
“I’m coming, lad,” she promised, sucking in a breath. “Let’s see the damage, eh?”
It was dark inside the house, too dark to see much. Ice and frost had crept in through the front door, making it just as cold as outside. Her footsteps crunched on the icy floor. The fire was dead, of course, the embers stone-cold.
Argentum dived somewhere into the darkness and disappeared. A bark came from the shadows.
“Hold on, boy, I’ve got to get some light,” she called. “Brendan? Brendan, are ye here?”
Something was wrong, to be sure. Without a doubt. He couldn’t possibly have gone to bed andaccidentallyleft the door open. There was no answering shout, but Freya was sure she heard something shift in the darkness.
Let’s hope it’s not an animal. Or worse, a person.
She fumbled around, finally coming across a stubby candle. She lit it, and squinted, eyes adjusting to the bright, flickering light.
At first glance, the room was empty. The cottage was an old croft, made up of one room only. Half of the room was a kitchen, with counters curving around the wall and a heavy, square kitchen table. The other half was a little parlor, with the dead hearth and a single chair placed in front of it. Directly opposite the front door was a curtained sleeping alcove. The curtain was open, revealing rumpled bedding. Nobody was there.
“Brendan?” she called again, taking a tentative step forward. Again, something shifted, and this time Freya saw an irregular shape curled up behind the kitchen table. Argentum stood beside it, tail wagging.
She hurried over, heart sinking.
Brendan lay on his side, half curled up into a ball. His linen shirt was stained with blood—old blood, she noticed, to her relief—and there was blood dotted about the floor.
She crouched down beside him, laying a hand on his shoulder. Part of her was afraid it would be cold and stiff, a sign that she was already too late.
