Morrigan's Cross (Circle Trilogy 1)

Chapter 15

“In the house,” Hoyt repeated. As he started to drag Glenna inside, Cian shoved past him and flew toward the stables.

“Go with him.” Glenna struggled past the tears and pain. “Oh, God, go with him. Hurry.”

Leaving her, shaking and bleeding, was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

The door where the black machine sat was open. His brother tossed weapons carelessly inside.

“Will this catch them?” Hoyt demanded.

Cian barely spared him a glance with eyes rimmed red. “Stay with the women. I don’t need you.”

“Need or not, you have me. How the bloody hell do I get inside this thing?” He fought with the door, and when it opened, folded himself inside it.

Cian said nothing, only got behind the wheel. The machine let out a vicious roar, seemed to quiver like a stallion poised to run. And then they were flying. Stones and sod spewed into the air like missiles. Hoyt caught a glimpse of Glenna in the doorway, holding the arm he feared might be broken.

He prayed to all the gods he’d see her again.

She watched him go, and wondered if she’d sent her lover to his death. “Get all the weapons you can carry,” she told Moira.

“You’re hurt. Let me see to you.”

“Get the weapons, Moira.” She turned, her face fierce and bloodied. “Or do you intend for us to stay here like children while the men do the fighting?”

Moira nodded. “Do you want blade or bow?”

“Both.”

Glenna went quickly to the kitchen, gathered bottles. Her arm was screaming, so she quickly did what she could to block the pain. This was Ireland, she thought grimly, and that should mean plenty of churches. In the churches would be holy water. She carried the bottles, along with a butcher knife and a bundle of garden stakes to the van.

“Glenna.” With a longbow and crossbow slung over her shoulders, two swords in her hand, Moira crossed to the van. She put the weapons inside, then held up one of the silver crosses by its chain.

“This was up in the training room. I think it must be King’s. He has no protection.”

Glenna slammed the cargo door. “He has us.”

Hedgerows and hills were no more than a blur through the gray curtain of rain. Hoyt saw other machines—cars, he reminded himself—traveling the wet road, and the edges of a village.

He saw cattle in fields, and sheep, and the ramble of stone fences. He saw nothing of Larkin, or the car that held King.

“Can you track them in this?” he asked Cian.

“No.” He spun the wheel, sent up a flood of water. “They’ll take him to Lilith. They’ll keep him alive.” He had to believe it. “And take him to Lilith.”

“The caves?” Hoyt thought how long it had taken him to travel from his cliffs to Clare. But that had been on horseback, and he’d been wounded and feverish. Still the journey would take time. Too much time.

“Alive? Cian, why will they take him alive?”

“He’d be a prize to her. That’s what he is, a prize. He’s alive. She’d want the kill for herself. We can’t be that far behind them. Can’t be. And the Jag’s faster than the bloody van they have him in.”

“He won’t be bitten. The cross will stop that.”

“It won’t stop a sword or an arrow. A fucking bullet. Guns and bows aren’t the weapons of choice,” he said almost to himself. “Too remote. We like close kills, and some tradition with it. We like to look in the eyes. She’ll want to torture him first. Wouldn’t want it to be quick.” His hands tightened on the wheel enough to bruise the leather. “Should buy us some time.”

“Night’s coming.”

What Hoyt didn’t say, and they both knew, was there would be more of them at night.