“What are they anyway?” It went on. “Cowards who won’t fight for themselves. Traitors who would switch sides depending on the wind of circumstance. Bullies who would chase a lone woman, who would corner her and—”
Jeren clenched her fists so hard that her own nails bit through her palm.
With a pained whine, Naul scrambled to his feet and gave a yelp of alarm.
And Shan, paler than ever, his face stretched with pain, met her gaze. Jeren stiffened in alarm. “They’re here.”
Before he could continue a spasm tore through his body. He gave a cry, more of surprise and anger than pain, though his body ratcheted in agony. Then he slumped forward, holding his head.
“Shan!” Jeren lurched forward to aid him, but Indarin’s hand on her upper arm stopped her, held her back. Naul yipped and barked, dancing around Shan in panic. “What’s happening to him?” Jeren tried to struggle free. “Indarin, what’s going on?”
In a whisper of feathers on the breeze, Kiah the owl arrived, perching on the windowsill and hissing in anger, in warning. She always comes when I need her. Jeren’s own words roared through her head. When there’s danger.
Shadows spilled from the corners of the room, from cupboards and the chimney, filtering up between the floorboards. Shadows everywhere, with gleaming, malevolent eyes and chittering voices, with teeth and claws. With a lust for blood.
Her dread quashed by the danger, Jeren drew her weapons in a chime of steel, two sparks of brightness against the dark. Noises told her that Indarin and Leithen did the same. But not Shan. He gave a tortured groan and she had to force down another desperate urge to drop everything and run to him.
“Shan?” She kept her voice calm and quiet this time. “If you can hear me, and understand me, bang on the floor with your fist.”
A moment passed, a moment of dread and horror.
His fist almost splintered the floorboards and made her heart leap. He was there, feeling everything. Still fighting.
Shadows swarmed around them, and in the centre, like a beacon calling them, Shan fought not to scream in agony. He recalled Ylandra, when she had tried to kill Jeren, when the Fellna had spilled out of her body. Was this what she had felt, this terrible wrenching, tearing inside? They’d used her as a conduit to swarm into the Feyna’s midst. Were they doing the same now? Was this his fault?
But they weren’t coming out of him. The relief was short lived, and still the agony raced through him. It made him useless, no help or protection for Jeren at all. They were coming from the town itself. They had found a way to use Brightling’s Dale as prey and trap both.
Shan dragged in a breath, the air like razors in his lungs. At the back of his mind, he could feel the growing horror. She was coming
The Enchassa. He knew it. Could feel it. She was coming. She would take him back this time and eternity would be spent in her dark caves and prison pens. The rest of his life being used, drained and changed. Made into her pet and toy. Her thing. One of them.
Jeren called his name. He focused on her instead. She was his light, his beacon, the one thing he could cling to.
He couldn’t lose her. She was everything. If that was no more, he would be no more.
Strength surged back into him, and the Enchassa recoiled, not stricken but repulsed. And chagrined. Bested for now.
But not forever.
Shan blinked sweat from his eyes. Blood filled his mouth, his own blood, and his body strained with tension and pain. But even as he moved, even as he realised he could move, the Fell poured into the room.
And in the centre, standing between Jeren and himself, stood the Enchassa.
There was no denying her beauty, terrible though it might be. Her black hair snaked down her back, strands coiling out to blend with the darkness she carried around her. Her slender figure was lithe and strong, sensuously curved. And her nails slid out of her fingertips like assassin’s blades.
Too close to Jeren. One wrong move and his mate would die in an instant. One wrong move and he would lose her. Then madness really would consume him. And he wouldn’t care.
Brightling’s Dale was nothing but a trap, cunningly laid, designed with Jeren specifically in mind. Brilliant, devious—either the Enchassa or Gilliad had been inspired. Or worse still, together they went beyond simple cunning.
Shan forced himself to his feet, ready to dive in and attack, ready to kill in a moment, if that moment presented itself.
But the Enchassa anticipated him. “Don’t do it, Shan. We’re just here to talk, after all. We’ve already fed tonight.”
Jeren’s face looked so pale, but the hard jaw line of her determination reassured him a little. She stood ready. Beside her, Indarin scowled at their ancient foe with all the malice in him. He’d loved Ylandra and lost her to this monster.
But he didn’t yet know who had ended her life. And what would he think of his brother then?
Everything the Enchassa did, every action seemed designed to inflict the greatest pain on all it touched.
“Lord Gilliad of River Holt sends greetings,” the Enchassa intoned with a smirk behind the words. “Fondest, filial greetings to Jeren, his sister. He bids her come home, swear fealty to him and be welcomed back into his love. He bids her think about the lives of those she leads on this path of folly, of their families, their children, and the dire retribution all associated with them will suffer if she continues in her treachery.”
“Since when do you speak for my brother?” said Jeren.
“Your brother is far wiser than you know. He has embraced our master and is favoured. As you could be, Jeren.”
Jeren raised her sword and it gleamed in the meagre light. “I want nothing from you, nor your master.”
The Enchassa glanced back at Shan and gave him too-knowing a smile. And then her attention was fixed entirely on Jeren once more.
But he heard her. There was nothing he could do to block her cursed voice from his mind though. Nothing at all.
“She’ll turn from you once she knows what you are. Send you away, imprison you, chain you up like an animal. You’ll see, Shan, the moment she knows.”
Shan closed his eyes, trying in vain to silence her.
Failing.
“You can’t rely on Holters, Shan. Every child knows that. Mayfly lives and fickle hearts. Her people will always mean more to her. That’s why you’re here, after all. Here in Brightling’s Dale.”
“It’s a trap.” His voice grated against his tight throat. “This whole town.”
Outside, Brightling’s Dale erupted in screams. The Fell surged forwards, eager for blood, for pain, but Jeren was quicker.
She slashed out with her sect knife and the Enchassa howled, cradling her stomach as she staggered back.
“You’ll pay for this Jeren.” Her spit splattered on the floor between them.
But Jeren just advanced on her. “That’s the second time I’ve wounded you. Next time, I’ll kill you.”
So fierce, his mate. So glorious in her anger.
“You’ll never have a chance, girl. You’ve drawn his eye now. He wants you and he shall have you. You’ll scream for eternity as our Master devours your soul and makes you his willing whore.”
The Enchassa stretched out her hand, slick with her own black blood. Darkness glistened at the tips of her nails, sparkling as light would, but this was not light. It was the lack of light.
“No!” Indarin yelled. Shan launched himself forward, at Jeren, at the Enchassa. He didn’t know which, just that he had to stop this before the spell could be fully formed. No matter what it was, it had to be stopped. Now.