The Archer (The Blood Realm Series Book 3) (33 page)

Little John stepped closer, but kept a respectful distance. “I know how much that land means to you. But you must realize going there will not change anything. He will take the land anyway, and if you try to save it, he will take you too. Robin is right, Marian. Stay here, with us.”

Marian took a deep breath, breathing in Robin’s scent, wrapping it around her like a blanket. Tears moistened the corners of her eyes.
If only I could stay.
She set her jaw, forced herself to pull away from Robin, to step out of the embrace she wanted to lean into so badly. She met his eyes and almost lost her nerve. There was such pain there.

“I’ll go in disguise. Once I win, I’ll immediately sign over the property to Ermentrude—in public. He’ll have no choice but to let me, and since it was given up for a prize, he’ll have no right to claim it for payment after I’ve signed it over.”

“It won’t matter,” Robin said tightly. “My glamour cannot help you now. He’ll touch you with iron, whether you’re willing or not. Even my magic can’t stand up to that. And when he knows who you are, he will never let you leave, even after you’ve signed the property over.” The lines around his eyes deepened, a shadow falling over his handsome face. “Because of me. He believes he can use you to get to me.”

I know.
Marian looked away, a little voice in her head taunting her, singing that Robin had lied to her. If he was so convinced she could not return to the village even for something as simple as an archery tournament, then obviously his assertion that he could help her return to her old life if she so wished after the three days had been a falsehood, a hollow promise to get her to stay. And she couldn’t even work up the anger to shout at him for it, to call him out. To shoot him like he deserved.

It doesn’t matter now.

“I will not need your glamour for this disguise,” she said instead, forcing hope into her voice. “I have someone else in mind who might help me.”

“The contest starts in a few hours,” Little John said doubtfully. “You do not have much time.”

“Then I’d better hurry.” She turned to leave, but something stopped her, drew her back into the room. Before she could talk herself out of it, she stepped up to Robin, took his face in her hands, and pulled him down for a kiss. His lips parted in surprise and she took advantage, slid her tongue along his to taste him, to experience as much of the passion she could have had as she could, before she had to leave it all behind.

A sound low in his throat made her stomach flutter, stole her breath. His hands brushed her hips, fingers heavy with promise as he slid them around her waist. She grabbed his biceps, pushed him away as she took a step back, out of his embrace. She had to leave, now, before she could forget why she had to leave, forget why she still cared about land that had only ever really meant something to a man and woman who were dead now.

Robin’s eyes were dark with hunger, shady green churning with shadows, with anticipation. Her heart leapt into her throat and she fled, sprinting out the doorway past the shattered door and into the glen. She was vaguely aware of Little John’s deep voice behind her, saying something to Robin, no doubt to stop him. She didn’t slow down to listen. She blocked it out, blocked out everything but what she had to do.

Right on the heels of that thought came the screaming awareness that her back was bare of her precious quiver and bow, and her skin naked of the spelled oil. The nightmare had frightened her so badly she’d left without it—had been in Little John’s presence without it. Had the shifter caught her scent? Did he know what she was? Would he tell Robin?

Fear tugged at her memories, tried to bring what she dared not think of to the front of her mind. She shoved it back, filled her thoughts with sensory memories of Robin’s mouth, his kiss, the weight of his hands pulling her closer, the promising heat of his body, bare chest so close…

She ran faster, the ground a blur beneath her feet. The door to her temporary quarters hung on broken hinges, leaving the path open for her to rush inside.

Her bow and quiver were exactly where she’d left them, hanging from the short bedpost, tucked behind the drooping blanket. The energy crackling over her nerves dulled to a low hum as she found what she was looking for in the quiver’s pocket, the small blue bottle that greeted her with a burst of rosemary. Her hands shook as she removed the stopper and tilted the bottle.

Only a single drop of oil fell into her open palm. Marian’s stomach bottomed out, bile splashing against the back of her throat. “No. No, no, oh, Goddess, no. Stupid, how could I be so stupid?”

She’d forgotten to go to the witch sooner, to refill the spelled oil. Now it might be too late. She had no idea how long it took to prepare the oil, if the witch would have time to make her more before the archery contest. And she was about to leave the protection of Robin’s glamour, leave the hidden glen that might be all that shielded her now from…

Against her will, she thought of the spell inside her, the spell that was strengthened and renewed by the oil. The twinge of magic was so faint, even thinking of it caused the hum of energy to quiet and thin. Marian’s knees trembled and she caught herself on the bedpost, barely keeping her already aching knees from hitting the floor.

Keep hold of yourself, there’s nothing to be done about it now. Get up, get going. Get to the witch.

There was no question of what she had to do now, no second-guessing herself, no going back. She rubbed the oil over her face and neck, biting her lip to keep from crying as she tried to smear it over as much skin as she could, stretch that one pathetic droplet farther than it had any possibility of going. Her nerves were so raw, they ached, and she could barely stop her hands shaking long enough to fasten her quiver onto her back. She stumbled out of the hut and shrieked when she nearly ran into Little John.

The shifter stood there with a horse at his side. The beast was beautiful. Its coat was pale grey, with streaks of white that shifted and moved like sunlight filtered through the water of a crystal clear lake. A silky mane slid over its back as it bowed its head, long, graceful ears flicking forward, as if waiting for a command. Little John gestured at the horse.

“She’s a fey breed, and a good spirit. She’ll be faster for you.”

Marian put a tentative hand on the horse’s shoulder, stroking its smooth coat. A lump rose in her throat. “I’ve cried more these past few days than I have my entire life.”

Little John smiled, a sad, knowing look in his brown eyes. “Love can do that to you.”

She pressed her lips together, refusing to let any sound out lest she start crying in truth and make a fool of herself. The horse waited patiently as she swung herself onto its back, holding on to its mane since there were no reins, nor saddle. Its warm body was oddly comforting, a solid weight in a world that had grown far too shaky. With a final nod to Little John, she squeezed the horse’s sides with her thighs and they were off.

What felt like no more than a few breaths later, they stopped. The woods around them had vanished, thick brown trunks and rustling green leaves melting into rolling grassland, lined with a few rocky walls. A small stone cottage with a freshly-thatched roof sat tucked away beside a beautiful blue lake. The sun didn’t seem to have moved in the sky, but she recognized her surroundings, knew them for the witch’s waterside home. A home that should have taken hours to travel to. Marian’s gaze slid to the horse. The beast swung its head around, blinked watery black eyes at her with a certain…expectant air.

“A fine way to travel if you have the stomach for it. Don’t recommend it to humans though, tends to leave the stomach slightly worse for wear.”

The witch’s voice snapped Marian out of her disoriented stupor. She followed the sound of the voice and saw the witch standing in her open doorway. Mother Hazel was a crone, a very powerful witch with a personality that ranged from maternal to that of a school teacher who’s had to explain the same lesson fifty times, and is weighing the prison sentence of murder against the frustration of making it fifty-one. Her nose was pronounced, leaning out as if ready to have a poke in someone else’s business, and her hands were callused proof that she didn’t use magic to make her life easier. Her brown dress was hiked up to reveal sturdy leather hiking boots, but as she came down the single step from her home, she let the skirt fall back to brush at the well-swept stone path leading down to the dusty road.

Marian had never been so relieved to see someone before in her life. Her heart leapt back into her throat, awe over the horse’s speed evaporating as her earlier panic roared back. She nearly fell off the horse in a mad scramble to dismount, just managing to get her feet under her in time to avoid breaking a leg. The witch arched a grey eyebrow at her as she ran to her side and in a grand show of audacity, grabbed her hand.

“I need more oil,” she gasped. A lock of red hair fell across her forehead, catching on her eyelashes. She ignored it, clinging to the witch’s hand and holding her eyes as if to look away for even a second would put her request at risk.

“Yes, I’d imagine so. Frankly, I expected you days ago.” Suddenly Mother Hazel frowned, dark eyes narrowing as she seemed to look inside Marian, staring through her chest wall as if she were made of glass. When her gaze returned to Marian’s face, there was an intensity there that made Marian squirm and drop her hand.

“Is there something you would like to tell me, Marian?”

“I…I…” Where to start? How could she possibly explain everything that had happened, everything that was still happening?

The witch pursed her lips. “Come inside, then, no use standing out here for gods know who to listen in.”

The nerves in Marian’s arms spasmed and she swiveled her head around, nostrils flaring as she scented the wind for spies she couldn’t see. The door to the cottage started to swing closed behind Mother Hazel and she darted forward to get inside before the spelled wood could shut her out.

Mother Hazel had seated herself in an overstuffed armchair, the sky blue material dotted with daisies looking rather out of place in the cottage stuffed to the rafters with drying herbs, sagging bookshelves lined with leather-bound volumes, and enough blankets to build a fort for every child in the county. “The spell I put inside you is nearly gone. Have you been talking about it?”

Marian stood just inside the doorway, wringing her hands, eyes bouncing from one knickknack to the other as her brain tried to distract her from the somersaults her stomach was performing. “No, I swear.” She blinked and the lock of hair draped over her forehead tugged at her eyelashes. She swiped at it, realized her hand was trembling, and curled it into a fist.

“Have you told someone the truth of what you are?” The witch picked up a book from the floor beside the chair and began leafing through the weathered pages.

“No! No, no, I haven’t told a soul. But—” Marian grabbed the end of her braid, twisting it as she tried to order her thoughts, to reach for some sort of calm. “I’ve tried not to. I’ve done everything I can. But there’s a man—a
sidhe
. He’s obsessed with my secret because some witch—no, not a witch, a—”

Mother Hazel glanced up from her book, dark eyes glinting in the sunlight streaming through the window. “And is your secret all this
sidhe
is obsessed with?”

Marian blushed, memories of just how close she and the
sidhe
had grown painting her cheeks with heat.

The witch nodded and looked back down at her book. “It is over then. I have no more oil for you.”

Marian’s knees gave out and she fell to the floor. The world spun around her, flinging her into a vortex of vertigo, blurring the colors around her until she had to put her hands against the sides of her head just to be sure it hadn’t fallen off to roll across the wooden floor.
No more oil. No more spell. It’s over.

“Gracious, child, what’s wrong with you?”

She must have been kneeling on the floor longer than she’d thought, because Mother Hazel was now crouched beside her, one time-ravaged hand resting on her back. Marian’s stomach heaved like a great ocean swell and the words rushed from her mouth. Faster and faster, they flowed, spilling everything that had happened over the past week. The murder of Guy of Gisborne, the
eric
, the
sidhe
, the loan. The witch who’d told him of her secret, his attempts to get her to confess. The deal she’d made with him to join his band, the second deal she’d made with him to give him three days. His promise that if she wanted to return home, he would make it so. The sheriff and the archery contest.

Mother Hazel listened intently throughout the entire thing, and when Marian finished, she gave a solemn nod of her head. “It is time for you to hear the whole story.”

Marian’s lips parted and she watched in dismay as the witch rose to her feet and returned to her daisy chair. “I don’t have time for the whole story! The archery contest starts soon, and I need to be there.”

“Ah, I understand.” The witch waved a hand and settled back into the chair smothering her skirts around her. “I’ll say goodbye then so you can be on your way.”

“You’re not going to help me?” Marian had meant it to sound like an accusation, but her voice came out weak and small, much more of a plea than a demand. She fisted her hands at her sides, then forced herself to relax. One thing she’d learned about Mother Hazel over the years—yelling at her only made her move slower.

“Young lady, I cannot abide shortcuts. If you want my help, you must hear the story first.” She smiled. “Otherwise, you may not recognize my help when I give it.”

Marian’s shoulders fell and she dragged her legs to sit crisscross on the floor in front of the doorway. Her nerves were too raw to stand and find another seat, her legs would likely just give out again. She scratched her fingertips down her pant legs, trying to resign herself to wasting time. Perhaps she could still make it, now that she had the fairy horse.

“Your mother—not the woman who birthed you, but the woman who raised you—once had a run-in with your people.”