The Archer (The Blood Realm Series Book 3) (25 page)

“Yes. And they’re wearing iron.”

His hands fell into his lap as he leaned forward. “Wearing iron as in clapped in irons? Stuck in a trap?”

“No, Robin. Wearing iron like someone deliberately put iron on them to help them fight against a certain person’s glamour.”

Robin retrieved the bow from the table and resumed fixing the string. The motions were familiar enough to him that he didn’t need to look, could have done it upside-down and blindfolded. “Not the smartest thing he could have done. What need do I have to lay a glamour over the wolves? I’m more than capable of masking my scent, they won’t be able to track me. And the iron has to be driving them half-mad.”

Little John jabbed a finger in Robin’s direction as he took one large step into the small abode. The cramped space wasn’t kind to his size, and his large foot made contact with the leg of the bed pressed against the wall by the door. If the volume of the thump was any indication, there was a good chance he’d broken a toe. Robin smothered the snicker that threatened to draw the increasingly incensed shifter’s attention and tried to keep his face as blank as possible as Little John turned a dark look on him.

“Your arrogance will be your downfall. That iron they’re wearing may not break your glamour, but it will give them an edge to overcoming it. They only need a trace of your scent to follow you.”

“I will be fine.” He rolled his eyes and finished tying off the bowstring, testing the tension with one finger. “What’s wrong with you anyway? You’re angry with me.” He pressed his lips together, killing a smile. “You were angry with me even before you stubbed your toe on my bed.”

The shifter snatched the bow from Robin’s grasp. Robin startled, taken aback by the violence of the motion and gaped at Little John. The shifter raised the bow as if he would use it as a club, then pressed his lips together and pointed it at Robin instead. “Have you bothered to ask yourself
why
the wolves are following Marian?”

Robin put his hands on the arms of his chair, gripping the wood and pulling himself forward. “I don’t have to ask myself that question, I know why they’re following her. Because the cranky sheriff told them to.”

The bow groaned in Little John’s grasp and Robin raised a hand, mouth opening to warn him to be more gentle. The look on the shifter’s face stopped the words before they could form.

“And why would the sheriff have her followed?”

“Because he thinks she’ll lead him to me?” His hand twitched, dancing in the air as he went back and forth between wanting to rescue his bow from Little John’s meaty hand and wanting to avoid provoking the irate man into hitting him with it. “Calm yourself. Even if she’s here, she’s not
here
here. Unless you’re telling me she managed to see through the glamour and is actually inside the encampment?”

Little John threw the bow down onto the mess of sheets that covered Robin’s bed. “No, she hasn’t. And you have missed my point completely.”

The first stirring of anger finally flickered to life, driving Robin up from his seat. Little John was using his disapproving father voice.
I hate that voice.
He leaned over to pluck his quiver from the hook on the wall and slung it onto his back. Fastening the buckle across his chest gave him time to settle his thoughts before speaking—something Little John usually accused him of being incapable of.

“What do you mean then? What is it that I’m missing, that’s getting your fur in a tizzy?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, but slipped past the bulky shifter and out the door, leaving him to follow with his answer. The fresh evening air mocked him with its cheerfulness, throwing his hair about his face in an overly-enthusiastic greeting.

“If the sheriff is having her followed, there’s a good chance he’s drawn a connection between you two.”

“So?” Robin looked around the glen where he and his companions stayed, the encampment hidden in a glamoured area of the forest that was supposed to keep out anyone who didn’t know it was there.

Their modest homes were all camouflaged just in case someone did wander through the glamour, so it didn’t look any different from any other valley. His own hut was tucked into a rocky hill, its stone façade indistinguishable as an abode amidst the stones and generous fall of wildflowers. Will’s hut was high up in a tree, little more than a few planks of wood for a floor, sheltered by a thick layer of vines and leaves. Little John’s larger abode was, appropriately, a cave.

“She’s walking in circles beneath Will’s lookout point,” Little John continued. “We think she knows she’s being followed and she’s trying to get our attention without leading the wolves here.”

Robin started off in the spriggan’s direction, a jumble of thoughts fighting for dominance in his head. He still didn’t know how he would answer Marian’s plea from last night. A part of him had hoped that perhaps she would change her mind, would give him a chance to show her what life could be if she would just let go. But something told him she hadn’t sought him out because she had good news. And the fact that the sheriff’s wolves were trailing her didn’t bode well either. He was going to have to do something about that.

Little John trailed after him, the tension rolling off of him making it clear he wasn’t finished with his lecture, and he wasn’t going to be deterred by having a walk while he gave it. “If he’s drawn a connection between you two, then Marian’s position is compromised. You know he’ll never leave her alone if he thinks she’s not human—especially if he thinks he can get to you through her. I told you taunting the sheriff was a bad idea.”

“Taunting the law is the right of every bandit.” Robin climbed another swollen hill, pausing to look out at the forest even though he couldn’t see Will’s lookout position from here. This glen was an oasis in that sea of green, a safe haven that would protect Marian if it came to it. The sheriff would not touch her.

“Taunting him is one thing, but making him live through death is another. And you’ve done it to him twice.”

Little John put a hand on Robin’s shoulder. Annoyance tightened the skin around Robin’s eyes and he turned, ready to give the shifter a piece of his mind. He was tired of being treated like a child, admonished for every action he took. As long as he was correcting Marian on it, he may as well start with Little John too.

The look on the shifter’s face stopped him. There were deep lines that hadn’t been there before, and even his beard looked stressed, clinging together in places as if Little John had tugged at it more than usual. A wrinkle between his brows drew his attention, and if Robin didn’t know any better, he’d have said Little John looked afraid.

“Robin,” he said quietly, “perhaps this is difficult for you to understand with your lifespan, but for a mortal, being forced to experience death—even just mentally—is not a small thing. Our psyches are not meant to deal with that kind of trauma, that kind of harsh reality—certainly not more than once.”

He dropped his arm, but the weight of his gaze was just as heavy, and held Robin in place just as well. Little John’s words were an unpleasant reminder of a reality he preferred to pretend didn’t exist. The reality that he would outlive his friend—outlive him by centuries. Already the shifter looked older than he had when they’d met, had more wrinkles on his face. He was a shifter, and he would live a significantly longer life than a human, but compared to a
sidhe
…

Little John’s face softened. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m not dying anytime soon.” He rolled his eyes. “Unless of course you get me killed. What I’m saying is, I don’t think you realize just how dangerous toying with the sheriff’s mind might be. He is not a weak man, not a timid man. He is cold and he is calculating and the one thing that holds him in check, that keeps him a productive member of his society and not a madman running about bristling with sharp, pointy weapons, is his discipline, his dedication to justice.” He held up a hand to halt whatever protest Robin might have offered. “Justice as
he
sees it.”

Robin drew an arrow, caressed the feathered end as he turned over everything Little John had said. “You think I might be turning our righteous crusader against all creatures non-human into a psychotic serial killer of all creatures period.”

“I think you’ve changed him, and what you’ve changed him into is not the sort of person you want concentrating on a woman you’ve come to care for.”

The arrow snapped in Robin’s hand, his head jerking up. His heartbeat pounded in his ears and it was suddenly difficult to swallow.

Little John nodded slowly. “Now you see.”

“I never meant to bring her harm.” He’d meant the words to come out strong, protection against the guilt gnawing on his bones. Instead, his voice came out a whisper, a plea for reassurance that the danger coming for Marian wasn’t there because of him.

“It’s been a long time since you’ve cared enough for someone to invite them to share your life, Robin. Will and I had no ties to our old lives, nothing holding us back from walking away to join you here. Now you care about Marian and you want her to be part of your life, but you must realize that she is not like us. She does have ties to her community, she has land, a home, responsibilities, people who care about her. You cannot expect her to just walk away from that, nor can you expect her to take it kindly when you start cutting those ties for her.”

Robin looked away, studying the rocky hill that hid his cramped quarters. It had never mattered to him that his room was cramped, little more than a hidey hole in a hill. Deep down, he’d never really intended to stay there as long as he had. But now, if he were honest with himself, he viewed that little cubby as home. Little John and Will were home. And…and perhaps Little John was right. Perhaps what he really wanted was for Marian to call this place home too.

“She wasn’t happy with that life.”

“And that was your choice to make, was it?”

“It was a choice that had to be made.” He threw the pieces of the broken arrow with more force than was necessary, anger rushing to eat away the guilt, warm the chill that had started in his spine. He faced Little John then, using his rising temper to gird himself against the shifter’s disappointment. “What everyone seems to forget is that before I came along, Marian was going to lose her land anyway. That life you speak of with such reverence, the one she clings to so illogically, was going to be gone. The sheriff—madman that I’ve made him—was going to take it from her.”

“Why?”

“Because she killed his cousin.” He narrowed his eyes. “But you knew that.”

The shifter had that dreadful look, the one that said he was about to make a point Robin wouldn’t like. “And why did she kill his cousin? Why was she on his property? Why had she been on his property before? What gave him the leverage he needed to threaten her, to back her into a corner?”

Robin tightened his jaw, stared into Little John’s steady brown eyes. For the first time he could remember, he wanted to strike out at the shifter. Draw his bow, let an arrow fly. Anything to make him stop looking at him like that. It wasn’t even accusation in his eyes now, it was worse. Understanding.
Pity
.

“We’ve kept her waiting long enough.” He didn’t wait to see if Little John would follow him, he didn’t care one way or the other. All he wanted now was to get away from this conversation, get away from the pain twisting his heart.

The familiar tingle of his magic washed over him as he passed through the glamour, a calming caress that reassured him his hideout remained secret. It wasn’t a long walk to Will’s lookout point, but it took a little more time than usual since he had to beware of the spies. He was almost grateful for the distraction, for something else to think about besides the presence of the shifter behind him, the weight of their conversation’s implications.

Robin wove a quick glamour to cover them as they moved, helping them blend in with the forest floor, their green clothing melting together with the leaves that surrounded them. Still, they continued to move slowly, avoiding unnecessary noise and disturbance that might draw the attention of the iron-clad wolves.

At last they reached the towering copper beech tree Will favored as his lookout point. Neither Marian nor her two lupine followers were anywhere in sight. Robin put a palm against the smooth bark of the beech tree, waiting for a nod from Little John before springing up, snagging a branch, and hefting himself into the upper boughs. A particularly thick batch of purple leaves hid Will from sight, only a low whistle alerting Robin to his position. He headed for the source of the sound and found Will lying on a tree branch, arms and legs bent at odd angles, making them look like misshapen twigs. The spriggan’s eyes were trained with alarming intensity on something in the distance, orange shadows drifting over the sickly yellow orbs.

“She’ll be back ‘round in thirty seconds,” he said under his breath, never taking his eyes off his target.

“And the wolves?”

“Thirty seconds after that.”

Robin shifted his weight until he found his balance on a particularly wide limb then drew an arrow from his quiver. The sleek wood caressed his finger, the tension of the bowstring strong, reassuring.

True to Will’s prediction, Marian came into view half a minute later. Immediately he knew something was wrong. This was not his Marian, not his huntress. This woman didn’t march, she meandered. Her cloak wasn’t pinned back to keep it out of her way, wasn’t held to keep it from rustling the forest debris or catching stray branches. It hung over her like a shroud, hiding her form and most of her face. Only the red curls escaping from the hood told him it was Marian. Even then, he would have thought it an imposter if not for the bow on her back. He recognized that bow, knew the craftsmanship, the curves that spoke of the love that had created them. Marian would not give up her bow. And so, this woman was Marian.

You did that to her.

He clenched his teeth, trying to silence the voice in his head, trying to shove it away. Damn them all, he knew he was right. She would be better off away from that life, better off with him. He would show them all.