Page 136 of Blood & Claw

Ailsa scowled.

Kayla’s reaction felt like a slap.

“I had to,” she shot back. “No one else was going to.”

“I would have escaped … eventually.”

Ailsa remembered the warrior with the tattooing knife embedded in his eye socket. Aye, she’d tried … and failed. “You didn’t though.”

“I just needed more time.”

Ailsa glared at her. “I’ve crossed half of Albia to reach you … the least you can do is show some gratitude.”

And give me some answers.

Darach had told her that she and Kayla needed to have an honest talk, and he’d been right. Her mentor had some serious explaining to do.

Aisla wasn’t the same lass who’d left Braewall. Once, the thought of surviving without Kayla had been enough to keep her awake at night. Once, she’d followed her mentor without question.

Not anymore.

She couldn’t interrogate Kayla now though—not at the risk of being overheard by their captors—but she would.

The two women locked gazes.

And to Ailsa’s surprise, Kayla was the first to look away.

Her throat worked, and when she glanced at Ailsa once more, her eyes glistened. “Sorry, lass,” she murmured. “It’s just … having you caught up in this … only makes a shitty situation even worse.”

Ailsa wanted to stay angry. She’d earned the fucking right. Yet the sight of tears shining in Kayla’s eyes made something twist painfully inside her.

Moments passed, and then she moved in closer to her mentor. “They want you to weave earth magic into tattoos, don’t they?”

Kayla nodded. She then glanced ahead, her gaze spearing the druid through the shoulder blades. “And if Gregor mac Hume is tangled up in this … we need to worry.”

“Does he—”

“Enough talk, Brèagha.” A rough hand shoved Ailsa between the shoulder blades then, making her lurch forward. Ailsa snarled at Maol, but he merely shoved her again.

Ahead, Darach whipped around, face twisting. He lurched toward the warrior, but Gregor caught him by his arm and roughly jerked him back. “Settle down.”

They walked for the rest of the night as the snow continued to fall. The world turned silent, and after a while, they were trudging, ankle-deep, through crunchy white powder.

Their captors seemed to know exactly where they were going though.

They were so deep in The Goatfells now that Ailsa wondered if anyone, save the hill tribes people and trows, dwelled in this bleak place.

Dawn finally broke, snow swirling around them. The sky was pale, the dark shadows of the mountains barely visible above. Snow frosted the pines and spruce that rose on either side of the path.

Ailsa no longer felt her fingers. Her feet had become blocks of ice.

Her stomach cramped then, growling loudly. Gods, she would have killed for a crust of bread.

The captors gave them occasional swallows of ale, but no food.

Ailsa fixed her gaze on the man’s boots in front of her. Left. Right. Left. Right.

The march seemed endless.