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He didn’t, but that didn’t matter. He plowed a hand through his hair. Took a steadying breath. “You told me I wanted to forget. You were wrong. There are some things I want very much to remember.”
Chapter 6
Morgan had been sitting in the taproom for an hour. By now she was certain. The man at the corner table watched them.
He sat far from the fire to hide his features. And alone, although men had invited him to share in a drink or a game of draughts. He’d turned all offers down—using his untasted pint as little more than a prop. He’d already waved the barmaid aside twice.
She wasn’t certain what had alerted her first. The inn’s taproom had been ful
l and there had been nothing to distinguish him as odd. But she’d been on edge since this morning. Looking for trouble. And so she’d remained alert. Watchful. Picking up on signs and signals until she’d narrowed it down to him. It must have been the precision of his movements. The careful way he handled himself. It spoke of training. And ability. Cam had that same quality. Though in his case, it was honed to diamond perfection. Buffed to a high shine.
At least it had been.
She snuck a glance at him. Frowned. He’d been drinking again. A lot. She’d known it was bad as soon as she’d seen him come into the room. But she’d bitten her tongue this time. If he wanted to pickle his liver, so be it. So long as he didn’t get in her way while she retrieved the Fey sword. But damn it, did he have to look so god-awful miserable and vulnerable and good enough to eat all at the same time?
It plucked at a long-buried maternal part of her that wanted to smooth the lines from his face, take him in her arms, and let him know everything would be all right. Even if it wasn’t. Not a part of her she wanted to explore too closely. Or get too comfortable with. She returned to watching the man in the corner. Kept her eyes and her mind firmly off Cam Sinclair.
But in the seconds she’d been mooning, the man had disappeared. The table stood empty. She scanned the room, but there was no sign of him.
“Cam. He’s gone.”
“Probably gone out back to take a piss.”
That was a possibility, but she doubted it. He hadn’t taken more than half a dozen sips from his beer. “No. He’s gone. I’m going to follow him.”
“Morgan. Wait. I need to say something…. I…” Cam grabbed her wrist. Met her gaze. And for a moment, it was the man she remembered. The silver blue chill in his eyes like tempered steel. The determination in the chiseled angles of his face. She swallowed around the lump that sprang into her throat.
She paused. Waited.
And then he opened his mouth. “Don’t be daft. You can’t go wandering out by yourself. It’s not safe for a woman alone.” And the moment passed.
She shook him off. Pushed back her chair. “Coming?”
His hesitation told her everything. She couldn’t say she was surprised. But she was disappointed.
She didn’t wait. Grabbing her cloak, she left him behind. Stepped into the dark. And didn’t look back to see if he followed.
The streets were almost deserted. Low clouds covered the moon, and a brisk wind plucked at her cloak. Morgan slid from shadow to shadow, keeping no more than twenty paces between her and the man. He crossed through the market square, making no attempt to evade any followers. He obviously didn’t realize she’d noticed him. That was good. It was tempting to conceal herself within the invisible security of the feth-fiada, but she didn’t want to use magic if she didn’t have to. If she was dealing with Doran or one of his men, they might sense the mage energy released. Know she was on to them.
Rain began, a sprinkle at first that grew to a downpour, shielding her footsteps, but also making it hard to track her quarry. His pace quickened as he moved farther from the inn. Was he on to her? Or was he just impatient to reach his destination?
She followed him into a rabbit warren of alleys, each one more filthy, cramped, and crooked than the last. The dark buildings leaned drunkenly over the streets. A cat lurked by a stack of broken crates.
She paused. Listening. Hoping for a betraying footstep telling her which way he’d gone. A flash caught the corner of her eye. Lamplight. A torch.
Hurrying after him, she vaulted a low stone wall, ducked down a narrow lane close to the river. Dank fetid air rose from the mudflats, and she caught the scrape of a boat against a piling. Wiping the rain from her eyes, she broke into a jog, slamming to a halt at the end of an alley. A dead end. But just beyond was the river where her man was obviously making his escape. How had he arrived there?
She whipped around. Of course. She knew where she was. She’d been here before during her earlier scouting. She was behind Church Lane, the river no more than a few hundred yards beyond. High walls ran the length of the cramped passageway. Above could just be seen the roofs of sheds, outbuildings. The spire of a church. Gates studded the wall, giving access to the yards and enclosures. She dashed back up, trying every one. Rattling the latches. All locked.
“Damn.”
Reaching the gate that led into the churchyard, she pushed on it. A sharp tingle zinged up her arm as if she’d hit her funny bone. Her fingers went numb. “Magic,” she ground out through clenched teeth.
Someone knew they were on the hunt for Doran. Someone with knowledge about the traitorous Amhas-draoi and Neuvarvaan.
And he was getting away.
She put her shoulder to the gate, slammed it open in her haste to catch her target before the river carried him beyond her sight. If he put in farther downshore, she wanted to see where.
