Weak with want, she nearly did. “I can’t.”
“If you love me, tell me. Tell me I must choose you.” His hands roamed over her; his lips grew hot and urgent. “We’ll have peace, and quiet moments. You will be all to me. Tell me! Demand it!”
“If I loved you, I couldn’t. If I loved you, it’s what and who you are I love. Stop. You’re hurting me now.”
“I hurt you?” He shoved her back, and the rage on his face had her heart flying to her throat. “What do you do to me with this weak mewling? Would you have me fight against a god for a meadow of flowers? Would you have me die by his hand? Do you wish this for me?”
He swept his hands down his body. Blood poured from his chest, down his arms, dripped from his fingers.
“No. Stop. Let me help.” She leaped to him, trying to find the wounds, to heal them.
“My blood is on your hands. Remember this, pathetic child of the Fey. You killed me.”
The dark dropped, and he was gone. She stood alone with his blood still warm and wet on her hands.
Alone, but not in the sun-drenched meadow. Now she stood in a forest so thick it felt as though the trees pressed in against her. A thousand heartbeats roared in her head. Terrified, raging, grieving.
Before her stood a tree, black as pitch, its branches gnarled and coiled. Its roots dug into the ground that held no life, as the tree had smothered its breath, its beat.
As she watched, as she understood she stood before the dark mirror image of the Welcoming Tree, those coiled branches began to move, to slither.
To hiss.
“No.” She pushed back at it with all she had. “You won’t come through.”
But she heard the screams, the clash and thunder of battle.
They had come.
So she ran, with no weapon but herself, toward the sounds of war. She tossed light ahead, gasping when she saw blood on the path. And the dead scattered among the trees.
She couldn’t save them, so she ran to save others.
But when she came through the forest, the castle burned. Flames ate their way over the bridges, and the river boiled beneath them.
Cróga, his emerald and gold scales smeared with blood and ash, lay dead on the scorched earth.
Screaming in grief, in horror, she dropped down beside him.
Odran walked toward her, the sword in one hand, the staff in the other.
And the power swirling around him, through him, spoke of death.
“Rider and dragon, dead. Hear the screams, iníon? Hear how they cry out, how they beg, how they curse the day you were born? Soon, the Fey will be no more, and the world is mine. Talamh has fallen because you did nothing.”
He laughed, his black robes billowing as he walked toward her. His gold hair flew around his face, and the gray of his eyes went to red-rimmed black. “Your blood is my blood. Your power is my power. Now come, and let me drink.”
She woke with a scream strangling in her throat, and Bollocks on the bed, nosing at her, whining.
She started to wrap her arms around him to comfort them both, but in the dim light, the dawn light, saw the blood on her hands.
“Oh God, my God.” Horrified, she shoved out of bed to race to the bathroom, scrub it away. She felt dizzy and ill, had to brace her hands on the bathroom counter to fight off the vicious churn of nausea.
“Not just a dream. A portent? Was it him or was it me?”
She looked up into the mirror at her face—sheet white, clammy with sweat.
Terrified.
“It doesn’t matter.”
She rushed back into the bedroom and to the globe. “Show me Talamh, as it is now, at this moment. Show me the Capital, and beyond.”
What she saw was dawn breaking, and the castle standing quiet and whole, its banner flying against the first hints of light.
She saw dragons in the air, and fields. Sheep and cows and horses, smoke curling from chimneys.
“That wasn’t now. If it hasn’t happened, there’s time to stop it.”
She grabbed clothes, dressing quickly—leggings, sweater, boots. She didn’t have a sword at the cottage, but reached for her wand, her athame. No weapon but herself, really, so she’d have to be enough.
She sprinted down the hall, rapped hard on Marco’s door three times, then just shoved it open.
“Breen, what the fuck!” When he shoved up in bed, alone, she saw she was too late to borrow Brian’s sword or take him with her.
“I have to go. I have to go right now, to the Capital.”
“What? Why? What?” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Jesus, coffee.”