Page 43 of Death Will Follow

“Callan.” Her voice was no more than a rasp, a puff of air forced along a throat long parched. Summoning all the force she could muster, Nova tried once more. “Callan!”

Her desperate call woke her mate, and he threw back the sheet, rushing to her side. Callan worked to release the blade from her grip, the muscles in his chest and arms straining with the effort. At last, he pried the weapon free, casting it onto the bed without a second look and bringing Nova’s hand close to his face.

Her chest emptied of air, relief flooding her as the pain receded from her wrist, concentrating in her palm briefly before fading to a dull ache.

“Are you hurt?” Callan asked, gold-flecked eyes wide.

Unable to speak, Nova could only shake her head. He placed a soft kiss in the center of her palm, and Nova flinched at the tenderness of the gesture, in stark contrast to the excruciating pain she’d experienced only seconds before.

“It was only a dream.” Nova cleared her throat. “A vision—I don’t know.”

He guided her to sit on the edge of the bed. “What did you see?”

She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her temple, struggling to recall the details.

“I stood on a sprawling moor, impossibly green. The mist was so thick, I could hardly see.”

The muscle in Callan’s jaw danced as he considered for a moment.

“We ought to wake Bryn,” he said finally, snatching up his breeches and tugging them on.

“Now?” Nova glanced out the window at the still-dark sky. The hour was early yet. “Why?”

“The place you described,” he began, his mouth settling in a hard line. “It sounds like the Wylds of Maedwen. We may be bound for the Spring Court.”

Callan exited the chamber, leaving Nova alone with Kinslayer. She stared at the cursed blade where it lay on the bed. Though it seemed harmless enough, she knew the weapon was dangerous. Even the promise of pain did little to quell Nova’s overwhelming urge to take it into her hand once more.

That which you seek, seeks you.

She wondered, was it Kinslayer calling out to her? A cursed weapon seeking another unfortunate soul to wield it? Or had she opened a doorway to something more sinister? Something that was now watching her?

Nova stood and draped a robe about her shoulders, then lifted a corner of the blanket and covered the shard, hiding it from view. The tension in her chest eased a degree, but still she hurried out of the chamber, eager for the company of others.

Bryn was groggy when Callan first roused her, but the fog of sleep quickly cleared from her eyes at the mention of her homeland. Though he was pleased they’d seemingly found the next waypoint on their journey, he couldn’t ignore the unease roiling in his gut. The flicker of his intuition urging him to steel himself for an unknown danger lurking further down this path.

He hadn’t set foot in Maedwen for nearly two centuries. Not since the day he’d lost himself entirely, swallowed whole by grief, slaying Ithan Greylock and eight others in a blind rage. The bloody deed had earned him the title of Aemoria’s Blade; the stain of that name still clung to him.

Callan shook his head against the ghosts of his past and turned his attention to Nova, sitting rigid in her seat, steel eyes fixed on her clasped hands, thumb worrying the smooth stone of her ring. When he saw she’d covered the length of broken blade, he stashed it in his leather pouch, out of view. Though she hadn’t seen him move it, he’d already observed her gaze wandering to his bag across the room a handful of times. She knew where it was. He believed her when she assured him she was unharmed, but something had frightened her.

Bryn was quick to confirm his initial suspicion, telling Nova, “That’s the Wylds all right,” then nodding soberly. “But it sounds like you saw the mounds. They’re ancient—old as the gods, folk say—and nearly impossible to find.”

“But they exist?” Nova asked, voice quiet and faraway, as if she’d pulled herself from a trance to look at Bryn.

“They do. But the Wylds are a strange place.” Bryn shrugged. “It’s the fog. Makes it all too easy to get turned around. Or lost.”

“Lost?” Nova knit her brow.

“Mischievous sprites like to play tricks. Some folk lose themselves. They find their way out but rave about being gone for years when it’s been no more than days. Others are never seen again.”

Callan stifled a shudder at the memory of his travels through the untamed wilderness. The nights were the worst. The darkness and the swirling fog conspiring against him. And the voices, carried on the breeze, sounding like folk he knew, both the living and those long dead. Had he been alone in the Wylds, Callan firmly believed the voices of his mother and father would have lured him further and further into the mist until he disappeared in it.

“It’s no place to travel alone,” Callan said. He laid a hand on Nova’s shoulder and she flinched. “We’ll be together.”

Nova loosed a breath and nodded, then rolled the tension from her neck.

“How do we find our way there?” she asked, casting another wary glance at his bag stowed in the corner.

“The first challenge will be getting into Maedwen at all.” Callan lowered himself into the chair beside Nova’s, placing himself between her and her father’s blade. He leaned his forearms on the table to confer with Bryn. “Lord Arthur doesn’t take kindly to visitors to the Spring Court. He’s blocked all portals leading into his territory, which means—”