“How many nights now?”
Thinking hurts. Tracking dates is worse. Goddess, I hate when he makes me count. “Three.”
A long silence. Can I sleep now?
“I’ll stay up,” he finally says. I know what that means. Keiran staying up means whispered recitations of the Eddur and a promise of breakfast in the morning. It means waking up to find him guarding me as the sun rises after a long night spent with his old knife in hand after keeping a watch out for all the monsters who visit my dreams.
Too bad they’re not monsters he can kill.
“What, Lugh?” he whispers from across the room.
Oops. Didn’t mean to say it aloud. Can’t exactly pretend I didn’t though.
“You can’t stop them,” I tell him. “They’ll keep coming.”
&
nbsp; “What will keep coming?”
“And they aren’t monsters.” I don’t tell him the rest. Instead, I close my eyes and wait to see if the next shade has already found me.
Chapter Six
Keiran
Lugh fell asleep as Loki and Freyja set about arguing in the recitation. I finished up the night’s work—setting Lugh’s washed clothes by the fire to dry, taking a quick bath, and rearranging our weapons—before preparing for bed myself. There was no room to sleep beside Lugh. He’d burrowed deep under the covers, his head covered by the pillow and the blankets kicked about, with his bare, muscular legs exposed. I tugged the blankets back in place and instead settled into one of the corners of the room. The spot gave me a clear view of Lugh and the door and eased some of the worry gnawing in my chest. Enough, apparently, that I crossed over into Nótt’s realm of sleep without much trouble.
I’m paying for it now though. Blinking awake is painful, partially due to the sunlight streaming in onto my tired eyes and partially due to my uncomfortable position. Wedging myself into the corner for a few hours wouldn’t have been so bad, but the lagging pull in my muscles and the steady ache in my joints warns I’ve been asleep for much longer than I originally planned. I reach up to scrub a hand over my face, but a blanket stops the motion. Someone tucked me in like a small child.
A quick glance at the bed confirms Lugh’s no longer asleep. His clothes are gone from their place by the fire. His favorite seax is missing from the spread of weapons on the table.
“Herne and the hunters,” I growl and claw my way free of the blanket. I throw on the rest of my weapons, do one final check of the room to ensure we aren’t leaving anything behind, and hurry downstairs.
Despite the sun’s progress, it isn’t as late as I feared. The only people awake are our party. The open doors of the hall let us see a few Sluagh passing by on the street, but not enough to indicate the village has begun to wake for the day. Lugh and the Hunt are settled in happily at a table in one of the hall’s quiet alcoves, sharing a loaf of steaming bread between them, along with a crock full of fresh butter and several open jars of jam. Armel notices me first and raises a slice in my direction.
“The fair Brynhildr has awoken,” he teases.
Lugh turns around, spots me, and is up from the table and in front of me before I can make the rude gestures I intend.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
Confused. Slow. Too far behind the day’s progress already. “Fine,” I tell him.
Lugh hasn’t called me on a lie since we were children, when he accidentally gave me away once in front of his mother. She had asked if we’d snuck out the previous night and I lied to protect Lugh, who instantly confessed. Queen Mab sliced open my cheek with an ice dagger as a warning against future lies and Lugh spent the next week helping me clean it while it healed. His expression would go stormy when he saw the pale line marring my skin. I hated seeing his guilt and grew out my beard, hoping I could hide the scar from him. He doesn’t seem to notice it as often, though he’ll sometimes trace the spot with a finger when he’s about to drift off. So when I voice this blatant falsehood about my day’s start, he makes a face, but lets me have the moment as he leads me back to the table.
“It’s all fresh,” he exclaims, reaching for the slice of bread Cybel offers. He starts slathering butter onto the bread and reaches toward one of the pots of jam with the butter knife.
Heathen. I smack his hand and snag the knife back. He frowns when I set it down beside the crock.
“I was using that,” he protests.
“Not well,” I throw back. And because I can tell he’s about to argue with me, I steal the buttered bread from his hand and take a bite. “How long have you been awake?”
He’s careful to not mix the butter and jam this time. He’s even more careful in his efforts to avoid my question. “For a while.”
“How long is a while?”
He squints off into the middle distance and tries to look thoughtful. It’d be more believable if his hand and the corner of his mouth weren’t smeared with jam. “An hour or so?” he asks, glancing at the men for confirmation.