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“Devonshire?” Cam asked.
“We got word this morning of another victim. That makes ten.”
“The list showed nine dead, sir.”
“I didn’t say this victim had died. He’s alive and hopefully will remain so until you get there. Perhaps he can give you something to go on. Anything. We need to find that sword, Colonel. We need to locate it. And return it to the Fey. And we need to do it soon. If its mysteries are solved before we find it, we could have a far larger problem on our hands.”
“Sir?”
“They aren’t called Undying for nothing.”
Chapter 3
They’d barely hit the corridor outside the general’s office before Cam grabbed Morgan’s arm. Spun her around to face him. He’d forgotten how tall she was. How her eyes could flay you with one scathing glance. “Is this some kind of joke?”
She yanked her arm away. “Do I look like I’m having fun?” She straightened the short crisp jacket she wore—a far cry from the sheer silks and bodice-hugging muslins he remembered. “I don’t like this pairing any better than you, but there’s nothing to be gained by snarling at me like a rabid animal.”
“And I’m supposed to credit you’re some kind of Amazon? Damn it, Morgan. What’s going on?”
“Scathach and Pendergast explained.”
“No. They gave me some cock-and-bull story about swords and magic and Fey and mysterious military societies who accept women as if they were the equal of men.”
“As if they were equal?” She sniffed her contempt. Motioned toward the stairs. “Come. There’s a pub across the way. We can get something to eat.” When he raised a skeptical brow, she offered him a cool smile. “Don’t get too excited. I haven’t eaten yet today. And just so you know, I’m letting you pay.”
The pub was quiet. Few customers this early in the afternoon. In the light of such normal surroundings, it was hard to believe what had just occurred. If it hadn’t been for that voice in his head he’d have discounted the whole episode. But no matter how he tried, Scathach’s words remained. Echoing into corners of his mind he’d slammed shut long ago—and for good reason.
Cam waited as Morgan ordered before he followed it up with a call for beer. The pint when it came slid into his stomach, easing the anxious tension banding his shoulders. Tightening his back. He ordered a second.
She watched him over the top of her own glass. “When did you start drinking so much?”
“Well, you’ve got the wifely nagging down already,” he grumbled.
She glared back at him. “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”
He put the beer down. Pushed it away, no longer thirsty. “I tried to apologize. I came to see you after Charlotte’s death to explain. You wouldn’t listen.”
She sighed. “I didn’t want your excuses, Cam. I don’t want them now. Let’s just pretend last winter never happened. Move forward.”
“Can you do that?”
“Do what?” She offered him a confused look.
“Forget last winter?”
Her brow wrinkled. “What happened last winter?”
“We…” He smiled. “Ah, very nice.”
“You see? Easy as falling off a log.”
She dug into her meal with relish when it arrived. The aroma of fried potatoes, steak, and steaming wheat bread slathered in butter made him realize how long it had been since his own breakfast, but too much had happened. Food could wait.
He rested his elbows on the table. Settled in. “All right, if that’s out of the way, you can tell me what’s going on.”
“What do you want to know?” The worst of her hunger obviously sated, she sat back. Crossed her arms matter-of-factly on her chest. All business. This Morgan was so different it was almost easy to forget what they’d shared in Scotland. Almost.
He plowed an impatient hand through his hair. “In the general’s office…while we were talking…that woman—”
