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Just how she wanted it.
“Where’s Sinclair?”
The voice was Doran’s. She’d know that smug, condescending rasp anywhere. It bounced off the man-made ravines and blasted cliff walls of the half-finished lock. Swirled like a noxious evil wind around her.
“Near death,” she answered, thanking the gods an empathic ability was not among the rogue Amhas-draoi’s talents. He’d never pick the lie from the truth. Not if she did her job right. “A belly wound. Your assassin was lucky. For a time. Before I killed him.” She let the reality of her words sink in. “If Euna Sinclair’s kidnapping was intended to punish him, it’s too late. He’ll be dead by tomorrow.” She swallowed. “If he’s fortunate.” She scanned the ground for signs of movement. “Let Euna go.”
“Is that her name? My men and I have simply been calling her bitch as we rode her.”
Morgan’s stomach clenched in spasms, making her want to heave. By the sweet mercies of the White Lady, she prayed the girl dead or mad if gang rape had really been her fate. Somewhere above, she knew the men heard the taunt as well. She willed them to hold it together. Focus not on Doran’s words, but on the end goal. Killing the little shit.
Doran stepped into view like a being spat from the Unseelie’s Dark Court. A sour, fetid stench wrapped round him, the odor of death and darkness and the wicked strength of the Morkoth. Even his physical shape seemed affected by the ancient evil. Grown gaunt and gray, his once mighty body bent with invisible burdens, only his gaze remained razor sharp, yet bore a millennia of hate. Neuvarvaan—Andraste’s stolen sword—rested against his leg, but she knew it listened to her words as avidly as Doran.
“A shame the colonel’s not here. I’d a deal to set before the two of you.” He gave an offhand shrug. “But one’s better than none.”
She slid her sword from its scabbard. “Enough games, Doran. Spill it.”
He straightened. “Very well. You in exchange for Miss Sinclair.” Confusion must have flashed across her face because he smiled. “Come with me willingly. Let Neuvarvaan create you as an Undying.”
Just the thought made her shudder. “And in exchange?”
“I allow Miss Sinclair to walk out of here unharmed.”
She flexed her fingers on the worn grip of her sword, adrenaline jumping along every nerve. “And if I tell you to bugger off, you miserable piece of shit?”
Doran laughed, though the humor never reached his soulless gaze. “Do you eat with that mouth, Bligh?” He settled a long, hard stare on her. “It’s your choice, of course. But know this. If you fight, you’ll lose. And Miss Sinclair will return to her home in very small pieces. I’ve already begun.”
He signaled to someone out of her range of vision.
A man appeared from behind a pile of stone to her right, bearing a struggling, weeping woman in front of him, her once fashionable walking dress now a sodden, filthy mess of almost rags.
“Show us, North.”
Doran’s henchman shoved Euna roughly ahead of him. She stumbled to her knees, her hands tied behind her, unable to break her fall. She looked up, meeting Morgan’s stare, her eyes hot with fear and shame and red with tears. As Morgan watched, North reached around, ripping Euna’s gown from shoulder to waist for Morgan’s inspection.
And Morgan wanted to be sick all over again. A brand burned into the white of Euna’s flesh just above her left breast. A mark of ownership. Possession.
One word.
Slave.
Chapter 28
Cam had never been so close to madness.
Not during the bloody chaos of Talavera when he’d had to pick pieces of offal from his hair and his clothes after the cannon shot that had destroyed the squad of soldiers beside him. Or afterward when the grass fires raged, sweeping over dead and wounded alike, the stench of burning carcasses filling his nostrils.
Not even during the storming of Badajoz when he’d climbed the bodies at the breech like a human ladder. Ignored the pleas for mercy from the dying. The screams of those fleeing the battle-crazed British out for blood. Then he’d calmly picked his way past the carnage in his search of his target. The man he’d been sent in to kill.
In every case, he’d held to his duty. Put aside the sickening twist of his own disgust and ploughed on. Unthinking. Uncaring.
But this time…this place…this was Euna. A wild battle-frenzy reddened his vision. Tightened his finger against the trigger. And a quick death was no longer good enough for the half mortal, half Fey walking corpse below him.
He adjusted his sight. His aim now centered neatly on the man’s left thigh. He’d splinter bone. Sever an artery. And when the bastard lay writhing on the ground, the fun would really get started. Cam’s palms itched to make it happen. A few feet more and he could take his shot. And then they’d see who took who apart piece by bloody piece.
Morgan spoke again, her words lost to him amid the deafening roar of his own pumping heart. But whatever she said, it lured Doran farther into the open of the worksite.
Instinct took over as he walked himself mentally through his checklist. Took clear aim. Let the clarity of the sharpshooter take him over.
