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“You keep that to yourself unless you want to end as Máelodor’s plaything,” Rogan growled. “As long as they think I’m screwing Douglas’s whore, you’re safe.”
“Safe? You call this safe? Locked in a room with my kidnapper while steps away a crazed snake-man threatens to torture my husband before he brings a dead myth back to life to begin an all-out magical war? Have I left anything out? Any other dangerous, threatening, or otherwise horrific detail?”
Instead of growing angry, Rogan laughed, which was like throwing oil on the fire. “No, I think you’ve summed it up nicely.”
She leapt out of bed, ignoring the fact that she was in naught but a chemise and petticoat, not even stays to add an extra layer of armor. She felt like a turtle out of its shell. “You find this amusing? We trusted you, Rogan. Helena trusted you.”
He sobered instantly, and for a moment she thought he might strike her. “Helena will understand once she sees Arthur in the flesh. Once she understands what his presence will do for us.”
“And when she sees Máelodor in the flesh? There’s a sight to inspire loyalty. The man’s a monster—literally!”
“He does what he must for the good of all Other. Just as I do. This is about creating a future for our race that does not rely on Duinedon benevolence, but our own superiority.”
“Killing thousands of innocent people makes you superior?”
“You’re Duinedon. You don’t understand.”
“I’m human. As are you. I understand war. Death and grief. You tell me how we’re different.”
That was their last conversation. Elisabeth subsided into silence, curling up on the bed with the blankets dragged about her shoulders, hands over her ears, though it did little to drown out the sounds of violence from below or the crude laughter of men hard with violence and stupid with drink.
Through it all, Rogan sat at the chamber window, looking out upon the dark, lonely valley, a pipe clamped between his teeth, smoke wreathing his head, shoulders hunched at every sound of breaking glass or stifled groan.
When Elisabeth finally fell into an exhausted doze, her dreams returned her to a sudden storm and a dazzling boy holding her tight in his strong arms. Only this time, instead of the tongue-lashing she remembered, he kissed her, his mouth upon hers, firm, demanding, his heart a steady safe drumbeat beneath her palm while the rain burned her cheeks like tears.
A rooster pulled her awake, the chair by the window empty, the sky low with clouds. An ominous waiting silence hanging over the cottage as if someone had died. She squeezed her eyes shut. No. Not dead. He couldn’t be dead.
Squashing the thought as far down in the back of her mind as she could, she opened her eyes, fear battling lack of sleep fighting with self-pity. The result leaving her surprisingly numb, as if she were watching events happening to someone else like a bad play. The defenseless heroine at the mercy of dastardly villains.
If only she could walk out at the intermission.
She rose from bed, splashing her face with water from a basin upon the washstand. Searched for a clean linen to wipe the dirt from her hands and cheeks.
Rogan’s coat lay draped upon the chair back. Hoping to find a handkerchief, she rifled his pockets, smiled as her fingers closed around the cold butt of a pistol.
This heroine was defenseless no longer.
The chamber door opened, whirling her around, the pistol concealed within her skirts.
A hand upon the knob, Rogan raked the other through his hair. “They’ve gone.”
No need to explain. She knew who had departed in the night and why. “When did they leave?” She heard the difference in her voice. Bolder. Confident.
Amazing what a weapon did for a girl’s self-confidence.
Rogan, on the other hand, didn’t seem to notice anything different. And, in fact, didn’t seem to be noticing much of anything. Dark shadows smudged a tired face, his mood sullen and glum. It was hard to feel sorry for him—extremely difficult, actually—but Elisabeth couldn’t help sympathizing with his obvious self-pitying moroseness. After all, she’d felt the same way until moments ago. “They rode out a few hours before daybreak.”
“And Brendan?”
Rogan closed his eyes for a brief, frightening moment. “Máelodor knows how to break a man slowly.”
Rage burned away her sympathy. She wanted to throw herself at Rogan and tear him limb from limb. Call him every name she could think of. Possibly make up a few. This was his damn fault. But indulging in hysterics would gain her nothing. She needed Rogan. Now more than ever.
“Do you know what direction they took?”
“No, and if Máelodor’s smart, he’ll not stay long to the main road but leave his escort and move quietly. He’s been clever enough to stay hidden this long. He knows how to move without being seen.”
“But you can track him.”
