The Archer (The Blood Realm Series Book 3) (23 page)

“Inconvenience.” The wizard snorted softly. “Very well. I will need a mortar and pestle, a fire source, water, a small cauldron, and vervain leaves.”

Mac nodded, once. “I will ready your supplies and return for you.”

“I would give you my word I will not run, will not try to escape if you release me.”

Mac dropped the wooden plank back down over the hole. It landed with a muffled thump, the wet soil sucking at the wood, gluing it to the ground. He eyed it for a moment, tilting his head to see how firmly it was sealed. The wizard was obviously getting enough air—he wasn’t dead. Still… He nudged the wood with his boot, creating a two inch gap between the board and the edge of the pit. No sense in letting the wizard expire before he could do some good. It wasn’t as though Casan would be shouting for help. He’d likely draw more danger than aid, and well he knew it.

He nodded at the wolf and the beast smudged the line of salt to break the circle. It padded along silently behind him as he started back through the woods. Something curled at the base of Mac’s spine, a feeling of dread, of being watched.

It is your imagination. You are letting the fey get to you.

Fur brushed his hand and he jerked it back, realizing that he’d actually been reaching for the wolf, as though he were some child cuddling up to his dog for protection against the monsters in the dark. He clenched his teeth until his jaw ached, curling his hands into determined fists at his sides.

By the time they reached the cabin, every nerve in his body was vibrating with awareness, aching with the anticipation of a clawed hand, or a mouth full of jagged teeth. It took every ounce of his self control to keep his movements smooth, to blow out the lantern and replace it on its hook, hold the door open for the wolf and latch it securely behind them. When he was finally standing back at his table with its ancient map, he no longer cared what the wolf might think. He snatched up the iron medallion and replaced it around his neck. The buzzing in his ears was almost welcome after the disturbing walk through the woods.

“Once the wizard has identified what manner of creature Marian is, we will gather whatever miscreants I can find and surround her home. When I am certain we have both the number and the quality of spies needed to follow her, we will let her lead us right to Robin Hood.”

“Sienna and I followed Marian to Robin Hood just fine on our own,” the wolf said testily. “Why do we need to wait for these recruits?”

“You followed Marian, but you lost Robin Hood.” Mac raised his eyes from the map, stared down the insolent wolf. “And I intend to do more than follow this time. I intend to take them both.”

“And if she does not lead us to Robin? If she somehow senses our presence, or if Robin gets away?”

Mac braced his hands on the table, his gaze falling back to his map as his plan unfolded in his mind. “Then we will take Marian and we will hold her hostage. Robin Hood will turn himself in, or he will live the rest of his cursedly long life with her blood on his hands.”

Those last words held more heat than he’d intended and the wolf tilted its head, eying him warily. “You plan to kill the woman? To make Robin suffer? We aren’t even certain there is romance there. The servant you spoke to could have witnessed a mere flirtation, a passing fancy.”

“My gut tells me differently.” Mac clutched the medallion around his neck, the cold metal a comfort to his unrelenting unease. Robin Hood was interested in Marian—he could feel it in his bones. Why else would he keep her with him after bestowing the gold on her? Why take her to the forest, introduce her to his cohorts? Why chase her? “She means something to that fey.”

“Always before you spoke of meting out justice to the fey. Will taking this woman’s life serve justice?”

All at once, Mac’s body sang with remembered injuries. A sharp, lancing pain in his chest, the burn of an arrowhead burrowing through his flesh, the throb of the sleek shaft sheathed in muscle. Deep, bruising pain and razor-edged agony—closing jaws full of teeth, the vicious digging of claws holding his body down as chunks of flesh were ripped away from him. The warmth of his blood washing over him, turning to ice in the winter air as he lay dying in the snow—eaten alive.

Every injury as real now as it had been when it happened, every injury echoing in his brain, over and over, his body remembering the pain, reliving the nightmares. He danced so close to death—
remembered
being so close to death.

All lies.

Illusions.

Glamour.

A scream rose in his throat, buoyed by the memories, surrounded by the helpless cries he’d loosed into that winter night. He had to quickly look away from the wolf, the sight of its silver countenance now too much for his psyche, too reminiscent of the creatures that had…

His breathing was coming too fast, his head starting to spin. He was vaguely aware that he was hyperventilating, panicking like a child abandoned to the darkness. A furred body pressed against his palm and he realized the wolf was supporting him, easing his descent as his legs melted from under him. He squeezed his eyes shut and drew his legs to his chest, forcing deep, slow breaths through his nose as he bent his head.

The wolf said nothing while he recovered, made no sardonic comment, no sympathetic but unhelpful encouragement. It merely waited for him to pull himself together, a warm, solid weight pressed against him.

As soon as he could manage it, he shoved it away, skin rippling with a shudder as he touched its furred hide. “Get away from me, you fool. Go and watch Marian’s estate with the other one, see that she doesn’t elude you. Do not leave until I come for you.”

The wolf’s claws scrabbled against the floor as it tried to keep its legs under the force of his push. Metallic yellow-orange eyes glowered at him, but again, it said nothing. A moment later it was gone.

Mac forced himself to his feet, gritting his teeth when he swayed slightly. He raised a hand and found his forehead slick with sweat, cold and clammy. He stalked to the fireplace and snatched a log from the basket. The fire had died and now it was little more than an enthusiastic pile of embers. On any other night, that would have suited him. The nights were not very cold and he had never been one to crave heat. But tonight he needed more, needed flames dancing in the hearth to chase away the chill he could never quite banish from his bones. The chill that grew stronger every night, fed by the nightmares that seemed to grow more powerful with time instead of fading away.

Nightmares of being eaten alive.

Shot.

Nightmares of dying.

Because of
him
.

Mac piled log after log onto the fire, nearly smothering the embers in his determination to chase away the lingering traces of the fey’s cursed magic. He fanned the flames, coaxed them to life, urged them to stretch, to build, to
burn.
When he was finished, the flames were large enough that he had to pull his chair farther back to avoid being ravaged by the very warmth he had so desperately sought. He sat down and stared into the flames.

An iron cage would hold Robin Hood. It would be painful, and that pain could last a very long time. From what Mac knew, none of the other fey cared for him. They thought he was a nuisance, and they hated that his glamour worked even on his own kind. But for the first time, Mac wondered if that was enough. Imprisonment. Justice.

The nightmares whispered in his mind, caressed his body with all the tender care of a rusted knife. The same scream tickled his throat, trying to escape, to give voice to the horror he was reliving for the umpteenth time. He tightened his grip on the iron around his neck, squeezed until his hand shook. Perhaps Robin Hood did not deserve justice.

Perhaps it was time for him to suffer.

Chapter Sixteen

“They only loved you when you were in the fields, only loved you when you were proving that you weren’t what you really are, when you pretended to be human. Is that it? Is that why misery is tied so permanently to love for you? Why you treat it like a disease and run away from anyone who shows the slightest interest in you as a person?”

“Lady Marian?”

Ermentrude’s voice was so soft, it was almost unrecognizable, too different from her usual boisterous bellow to be the same woman. Only her scent remained the same, flowers, soil, and just the faintest trace of fertilizer. Marian kept her eyes on the setting sun, the tangle of memories fighting to sort themselves in her mind a chaotic contrast to the peaceful beauty of the fading light.

“I remember when I was six years old, Mother brought me out to the garden to help her weed. I butchered the plant I was supposed to be rescuing. There were seeds everywhere, dripping off my spade, splattered over my face.” She brushed a finger over her cheek, chasing the ghostly itch of drying tomato pulp. “Mother told me what a wonderful job I did. Went on and on about how happy she was to have me with her, how much she looked forward to spending time with me.”

“She was a good woman, your mother.” Ermentrude hesitated, then crept forward to sit next to Marian on the low wooden bench tucked in the corner of the garden. “Missing her are you?”

“Then when I was a little older, Father took me out to the fields with him. I had to carry these monstrous bags of seed, or some sack of tools or another. He always went on and on about what a grand help I was, how he couldn’t imagine trying to do it without me.”

“You were a great help to them.”

Marian folded her hands in her lap, wringing them so tightly they trembled. “I was always so happy to see them smile, always so grateful for their praise.” She looked at Ermentrude then, met the gardener’s earthy brown eyes. “But I
hated
gardening. And farming. I hated the tediousness of separating weeds from the good plants, I hated sitting on my bum all day turning soil, I hated tromping through the fields, tripping over the stupid furrows and baking to death under the sun with nary a tree to offer even a hint of shade.” Her vision blurred as the tears welled up. “I loved my parents, but I
hated
the life they loved. The life they wanted for me. And they knew it.”

“It’s all right, Lady Marian,” Ermentrude said gently. “They knew that, but they still loved you.”

“Did they love me?” Marian gave a laugh, the sound bitter. “I wonder.”

Ermentrude’s eyes widened and she put a hand on Marian’s leg. “What on earth could make you doubt it?”

The question plucked at the latch on the floodgate of emotions Marian was trying so hard to hold in check. She bent to retrieve her bow from the ground where it lay next to her quiver. It had taken an hour to find them, but Robin had stayed with her, helped her look. She wasn’t certain what bothered her more, the fact that she’d gone out of her mind enough to abandon the bow she loved so dearly, or the fact that Robin had shown more understanding for her distress over the loss than the man and woman who’d supposedly loved her.

She held the bow now, ran a hand over the smooth curves. “When I made my first bow and arrow, do you know what my father said? ‘Put that up before someone gets hurt.’”

“Well, now, you were awfully young for a weapon—”

“And when I killed my first deer—when I brought back meat to feed my family. Do you know what my mother said? ‘Marian, I worry so much about you when you’re out there. You really don’t have to worry about hunting for our food, we have more than enough.’”

The hand on her knee tightened, offering support and smothering her all at once.

“They worried about you. They wanted you to be safe.”

Marian shook her head. “Every memory I have of them telling me they loved me, of them happy with me, has me standing out under the sun with dirt under my feet and my fingernails. Not once were they proud of me or happy with me when I was proud or happy myself. Why couldn’t they spend time with me in the forest? Or when I was crafting my bow? Why couldn’t they be happy about meat I provided? Why did they have to look so bloody miserable whenever I was happy, and happy when I was bloody
miserable
?”

Her voice broke and she looked away, hiding the tears the gardener had already seen, had no doubt heard in her voice.

“Mother and Father used to tell me there was great peace to be had in the land,” she whispered, keeping her voice low, not trusting it not to break again. “They told me so many times that if I would just come out here and sit, soak up the beauty around me, it would soothe my spirit.”

“There are many who find peace here,” Ermentrude agreed gently. “But then there are those who find peace elsewhere. The forest is also a thing of beauty, and there is satisfaction to be had in providing food for those who depend on you. Maggie’s delicious meals do not owe all their ingredients to the ground, you know.”

Marian snorted, swiping at her eyes before she remembered her bracers. She’d put the arm guards on before leaving the house, somehow hoping that by arming her body she could somehow arm herself mentally as well. The edge of the etched leather caught her in the eyebrow and she winced. “Such words from you. Best lower your voice lest your beloved flowers lose their petals in shock.”

Ermentrude flushed. “Lady Marian, I must admit I am more like your parents than you. I love to have my hands in the dirt, the sun on my face. I feel that peace your mother spoke of when I’m here.” She cleared her throat, taking her hand from Marian’s knee and looking down at her laced fingers. “And if I pushed you too hard to find that same peace, then I was…wrong. Anyone can see that you find pleasure in the forest and your pursuits. If I made you feel that those efforts were less than mine, or caused you guilt over pursuing that happiness then… Well, I’m sorry.”

Marian’s throbbing eyebrow ached a little more sharply as she forgot the injury to raise it in surprise. Ermentrude noticed her stare and flushed a deeper shade of crimson.

“Don’t look at me like that. I care about you, Lady Marian. Your family has always been good to me and mine. If I was hard on you it was only because… Well, perhaps a part of me—a very small part—somehow felt the need to take over for your mother. Not that that’s my place,” she rushed to add.