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Chapter Fourteen
Conor stretched his legs out in front of him. Another six inches and his feet would be smoldering amid the fire’s embers. But still the chills gripped him. Sometimes so hard he clenched his teeth to stop their chattering. He crossed his arms over his chest in a vain attempt to keep warm and tried to concentrate on his father’s words. Coming home could never be simple.
Mikhal sipped at his whiskey. “We hadn’t much warning you were coming. The messag
e arrived shortly after midnight.”
“I’d forgotten how efficient are the ways of the fey.”
“Yet in this case, helpful. We kept watches posted on the roads. Morgan, Ruan, even Jamys did his share.”
“Asher or his hounds would have had them for breakfast.”
“Do you think so? I think you overestimate this fey demon. Or underestimate your family.” His father rose, plucked a rug from the back of a chair. Crossing the room, he dropped it in Conor’s lap. “Here. This will help.”
Conor thought about pushing it away, but he was too damn cold. He wrapped it over his shoulders, burrowing into the thick, soft wool. The worst eased.
“So where does the girl fit into all this?” his father added, sitting back down. “You were never one to bring home strays.” His mouth curled into a patient smile.
Here’s where it got tricky. What to reveal that didn’t tip his hand. He couldn’t expose Ellery’s part in the reliquary’s discovery. His father wasn’t stupid. He’d put it all together and try to stop the ritual. But Conor had never been one to flaunt his women in front of his family either. And Ellery deserved more than to be thought of as his latest mistress.
“A pack of Keun Marow on my trail caught her scent instead. They tracked her to her house. Attacked it. I fought them off, but couldn’t leave her there to fend alone in case they returned.” He paused, but nothing in his father’s expression gave any indication of his disbelief. He simply sipped at his whiskey, his gray eyes boring into Conor like two ice shards. He continued smoothly, “Asher’s appearance threw another spanner in the works. He tried taking Ellery. He wants her. Like he wanted Ysbel. I won’t let it happen a second time.”
“So you brought her here for her safety. A valiant idea. I only hope we don’t scare her off in the first twenty-four hours.”
Conor laughed. “She doesn’t scare easily.” His laughter turned to a cough that seized his lungs and clutched at his chest. He gulped his own whiskey. Finished and then wished he had the energy to get up and pour himself a second.
“You should see Jamys about the mage sickness.” As if reading his thoughts, his father got up and took Conor’s empty glass, refilling it. “He could enhance your healing. Speed things up.” He handed it back.
Conor took it gratefully. “It’s better.”
Mikhal ran a tired hand through his hair. “You always were hard-headed. We’re not without our gifts. We may not all be amhas-draoi, but the blood of the Other runs in our veins as surely as it flows in yours.”
His father had managed that one smoothly. Turned the conversation right back to where Conor didn’t want to take it.
“That’s not what I meant. And you know it.” He gripped the chair arms—hard. “After Ysbel’s death, can you honestly believe this creature isn’t as dangerous as I describe him?”
“Never think that, Conor. I know he’s capable of inflicting great misery. We live under it every day. But it’s you I worry about now. I see a change taking place. It’s greatest in your eyes. They see more. Show less. The fey in you is taking over.”
Conor threw himself to his feet, the rug sliding to the floor. “I’m doing what needs to be done. If that means pushing my powers to their limits, so be it.”
He paced, wishing he’d had any other choice but to come here. With Ellery. But his chest ached even now as if he’d been running. The mage sickness knifed through him—seizing joints, cramping muscles, pulling him apart inch by inch. Still, he hated this inactivity—this hiding. At the window, he leaned against the sill, stared out into the rain.
What day was it? Thursday? Friday? He’d lost track. But he had little more than two weeks to heal before Beltane and his final confrontation with Asher. Only a little more than two weeks left with Ellery.
God, was it that long? An eternity. A blink of an eye. He crushed that thought down deep. He wouldn’t think about it. She would be gone. Things would return to normal. Life would move on.
“I’m all right, Father,” he said, “It’s nothing I can’t handle. It’s always been a balancing act, hasn’t it? The human in us. The fey.”
His father regarded him with a steady look. “Perhaps. But I sense you’ve gone beyond. Is it vengeance driving you to trade your humanity for power?”
Conor’s mind still burned with Asher’s threats; his hands tightened on the sill.
Mikhal’s quiet voice pierced the growing rage. “Is it guilt?” His throat closed around a knot. He gripped the sill. So tightly, splinters of wood pushed beneath his skin. Forced him into the present. He pressed his forehead against the cool of the glass. “I failed her,” he said. “She was blameless. But because of me, she suffered.”
He spun around. Lines etched his father’s face. Sorrow and worry aged this man who’d been more to Conor than any other. He would not fail him a second time. “Asher’s days are numbered. I’ll make him pay.”
Mikhal shook his head. “We’ll talk no more about it tonight. But see Jamys, will you?”
