The ruination is even worse in here. Piles of snow drift over the exposed floor, while the sections still protected from the worst of the elements are layered with dirt and dead plants. A handful of clay shards from broken dishes lie scattered near the broken sink. Splintered stairs lead up to a narrow balcony that must have connected to a bedroom before the cottage’s collapse. I brush a hand over one of the fallen beams, noting its charred appearance. “Looks like a fire already came through,” I murmur.
Lugh hums his agreement, sidestepping burned detritus on his way to the stone hearth. It’s fairly sheltered, thanks to the way the roof tumbled down near the chimney. I have to work my way through the wreckage slower, taking care to not bump anything lest it come down on our heads. By the time I reach the hearth, Lugh’s already collected a small pile of wood scraps and is arranging them.
“It must have been a nice place once,” he says, and gestures to the decorative bricks.
I step closer and wipe the dirt and ash away from the pattern. It smudges, clears, and I blink when I can finally make out the shape. “Is that a...bird?”
Lugh pauses in his work and inspects the design. “A robin, maybe? I’m not sure. Seems a fancy touch for someone living this far out of the way.”
I leave him to gather more wood, larger pieces that will put off some genuine heat for Lugh, and turn back to find he hasn’t moved again. Instead, he stands by the hearth, his mouth slightly parted and his eyes wide. The powdery snow on the floor lifts in a sudden gust of wind and swirls about us. I lift my arm to my eyes to protect against the stinging flakes.
“Keir,” Lugh whispers. When I lower my arm, I see his cheeks have gone pale and his body shakes. Even I’m starting to suffer from the creeping cold; it settles under my skin, sending painful prickles of sensation through me.
Shit. We need to get the fire going.
“Here,” I tell him, moving toward the hearth. “Let me do this.”
“Keir, something’s here.”
I draw up, and some of the wood falls from my arms and clatters against the floor. “What?”
“We should leave. Something’s—”
The wind howls, the snow hits us and reduces the world to a stinging white emptiness, and before I can drop the wood and reach onto my back for my father’s axe, I hear Lugh scream.
“Lugh!” I bellow and reach out blindly to try to reach him through the whipping snow.
My fingers close on nothing except air. I draw my axe, but can’t risk swinging without knowing where Lugh is. The wind picks up to a high whistle, just off-key of Lugh’s cry, and I have to close my eyes and turn my face away when the delicate ice flakes cut against my skin like glass. And then, without warning, Lugh goes silent.
The obscuring clouds of snow drop back to the ground, spilling over the floor out from the small circle encompassing Lugh and me. I lift my axe and spin, checking the room for any sign of an enemy, but find no one. Lugh hasn’t moved. He stands only a few feet from me, his head tilted down toward his chest. The sensation that’s been growing under my skin stabs through my flesh and reaches its icy fingers deeper.
“Lugh?” I whisper, and flex my grip on the axe.
His head snaps up and eyes filmed over with a pale blue haze fix on me. The growl he gives is too big for his chest, rumbling and crawling out of him to echo around the ruined room.
“Where’s Lugh?” I ask.
The thing—the shade—wearing Lugh’s skin tilts its head. It doesn’t answer. Instead, it takes an unsteady step toward me. I step back, axe raised, offering up the iron and praying the threat of the metal keeps the thing back from me.
Lugh’s features warp around a wordless scream when I raise the axe a little higher. At least the shade doesn’t rush forward and risk injuring Lugh’s body. Instead, a too pale hand dips down and draws a long seax from his belt.
“Don’t,” I warn.
It doesn’t fight like Lugh. Lugh’s graceful and quick; he moves like a dancer and his strikes are about timing, not brute strength. The shade possessing him doesn’t know how to use his body to its advantage. It lunges at me, seax angled to stab, telegraphing its choppy movements so obviously I can block the first attempt and pivot away. I need to get out of the closed end of the room where the hearth stands, need open space if I have to swing the axe.
Its next attack is harder, and I swear when I block and feel the impact radiate up my arms and into my shoulders. There’s not enough time to dart away from the second blow. Lugh’s seax slams into the haft when I twist it to avoid taking the sharpened edge to my neck. This creature is stronger than me, ripping the seax free without hesitation before slicing toward my hands. Unavoidable in such close quarters. I turn and take the slash on my forearm instead, yelling when the blade breaks through fabric to dig into my skin.
The shade miscalculated the distance between us. Stepping forward to slice at me means it’s exposed now as the blade withdraws. I turn, planting my shoulder into its sternum to push it back, and continue the spin, lifting my other elbow so I can crack it—and Lugh’s body—in the jaw. It staggers away.
“Lugh, stop,” I order.
The only reaction I receive is an experimental shake of the head before it changes its grip on the seax and starts for me again.
Blade meets blade. A closed fist swings and meets my temple, leaving the world a mash of vibrant colors and sharp pain. I drop on instinct and sweep the axe haft toward Lugh. He topples, granting me the space I so desperately need. My belt stings against my waist, ready to unleash its magick at the barest suggestion of my will.
The shade drags Lugh back up to his feet. It darts to one side, comes back to the other, and I meet the charge. This time, I don’t hold back. I roar and throw my full strength behind the block, levering the seax up and away. The weapon skitters across the floor toward the open door and freedom. I expect the spirit to back down now that it’s unarmed, but it throws itself against me. I drop the axe to protect Lugh from the iron, centuries of careful reaction that the shade exploits at a critical moment; it’s on me, knocking me onto the floor.
This isn’t Lugh. The shade infests him, wraps its legs around me, digs its knees into my ribs, and presses its freezing hands against my throat. I reach up and grab at Lugh’s forearms, trying to rip free as his full weight presses down and crushes my throat. This isn’t Lugh, but my body doesn’t know what my mind does. He squeezes his thighs tighter and, for a terrifying moment, I feel my muscles relax, obeying the unspoken physical command to give in. My grip weakens.