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“Just that you should give in to these lapses of sanity more often. You have exquisite taste when you choose to use it.” He sipped his wine. “I hope he was worth it.”
If looks could kill, Ruan would have been dead a hundred times over. Morgan’s face hardened with rage, unspoken curses boiling in her eyes. She put down her fork and knife with slow precision. Pushed back from the table and stood.
It was obvious Ruan knew he’d stepped in it and had done so completely by accident. His mocking smile had been wiped clean as he sought to backtrack. “Gods, Morgan. I’m sorry.” And then his eyes caught hers and held them. And the concern and the love were evident. “He didn’t know what he had.” And this time the sting of sarcasm was gone. He meant what he said.
Morgan saw it too. She trembled, the emotions flying across her face. But she mastered them, sucking in great lungfuls of air to calm herself. Returning to her seat, she cleared her throat, her tone back to normal. “Unfortunately he did know. He just forgot to mention her to me.”
Ellery flopped back onto her bed with a groan of disgust. She was hopeless. Dinner had been tense. The rest of the evening worse with everyone on edge or buried deep in their own problems. Only Lowenna had seemed immune to the charged emotions of the people around her, quietly sewing, her composure almost an insult where Ellery was concerned.
She’d felt Conor’s gaze upon her, that dark unfathomable stare that knotted her insides and left her alternately hot and cold. Not an admiring look, despite the dress. This was more the reaction of a man with a problem he’d rather do without. So when he’d slid out as the case clock struck nine, she’d been almost relieved.
Why did he make it so hard? And worse, why did she care? He certainly hadn’t tried to capture her interest, but somehow it had happened. The quiet confidence. The bullish determination. The reckless courage that pitted him against Asher, even sick and weak as he was, and the selfless compassion that allowed him to sneak bones to old dogs or come to the aid of wounded soldiers at the cost of his own health. She amended that. It hadn’t been just wounded soldiers. He’d healed her when he could just as easily have let her die. He’d found the reliquary. Why bother with her?
Only one answer; he wasn’t the natural born killer he seemed.
His brutality. Her loathing. His heroism. Her gratitude. So intertwined there was no way to untangle them that didn’t leave her more confused. She lurched from the bed. Paced the room in frustration. This see-sawing was driving her mad.
Her eye fell to Mr. Porter’s pearl, now resting safely in a porcelain dish upon her dressing table, and an idea formed. Foolhardy. As reckless as anything Conor had done. But she needed to at least thank him for keeping her alive this far. She needed to say good night.
Chapter Seventeen
Conor slipped from shadow to shadow through the trees, not even the crack of a twig to mark his passing.
He’d sensed the tremor across the wards hours earlier. Scanned the salon to see if anyone else felt the disturbance in the defensive field. Only Gram met his gaze, her sewing put aside, her chin up as if she listened for a sound that no one else could hear. She nodded once, and he rose. Slid away unnoticed. The hunt was on.
He’d shifted as he sped northward toward the source of the trouble. Brought forth the Heller, praying even as he did so that he’d have no cause to fight. He was still weak. Not even Jamys’s abilities enough to completely cleanse him of the Keun Marow’s poison.
Skidding to a halt at the edge of the woods, he already knew what he would find. The death hounds’ stench fouled the air. Soured his stomach.
There were three of them hunched above a victim, now little more than mutilated offal. Their mouths dripped blood as they gorged, their nose slits spread wide to absorb the mage energy that curled up from the dead faery like smoke. Bloated with stolen magic, their power would be dizzying.
So much for the praying.
He slid his sword from its scabbard. Tried to circle around behind them, but alerted to his approach, they broke off feeding, peered into the woods with eyes like cinders.
They were well-armed. The largest pulled a wicked-looking scythe from its belt. Another had a short axe strapped across its back. A third held a bloody spiked club in one clawed fist.
Conor broke into the clearing, leaping at the closest of the three with a lunging sword thrust.
The largest hound threw itself sideways as the second advanced swinging his club, hoping to crush Conor’s arm or knock away the blade. The third melted away. Lost in the dark.
The two that were left were coordinated and stronger than Conor had anticipated. And he was weaker. He couldn’t use magic. That would only strengthen their already overwhelming odds. And without it, he was at a disadvantage that grew every second he lingered. He needed to end this. Quick.
He backed up, parrying the fey hunter’s deadly club before twisting and ducking to knock aside a scythe thrust from behind aimed at taking his head from his neck. The Keun Marow’s blade spun away into the grass.
But Conor’s victory was short. The club-wielding hound advanced, every blow tiring Conor’s already drained strength. He fended him off, but his arm felt limp and numb from wrist to elbow. Sweat poured down his chest. Stung his eyes. It shouldn’t be this hard. It wouldn’t be if he weren’t still sick.
In a last effort to even the odds, he slid beneath the Keun Marow’s guard, bringing his sword up and out, tearing into the creature’s chest. Hot blood slicked Conor’s sword hand, soaked his torso. The beast screamed, crumpling to the ground.
One down. One to go.
Conor felt the rush of wind behind him as he straightened. Spun to defend himself against the last hound. But this creature was fast. He parried every sword thrust before lunging with his scythe, ripping a gash across Conor’s stomach.
Roaring his pain, Conor clutched the wound. Twisted out of reach and slammed his sword home.
It was over. But not without cost.
