The woman reached out to grasp her mother’s arm. “But—”
“No! You’re at risk as it is. This man will protect me. Go home. I’ll send for you.” Her voice brooked no argument.
Still, the younger woman tried. Finally, she huffed and turned to him. In a flash, her face hardened. In a dark voice, she said, “Protect her. Or I will come for you, and you will regret it with every fiber of your being.”
A shiver ran through Warren as the girl turned from him and hugged her mother before climbing back into the farm cart. Lantern light glinted off her face. Her eyes flashed, changing color to pitch black. He didn’t believe in magic, but as he watched the cart rumble down the dark road, the chill wouldn’t leave his bones.
He shook it away and looked at the woman who stood cloaked before him. She was his responsibility, a role he took seriously enough without the daughter’s eerie threats.
“Come,” he said. “We must make it through the forest by dawn. Are you meeting someone at the port?”
“Nay. I’ll meet the father of my child in the New World.”
“Excellent. I will get you there.”
She nodded and they set off toward the port. It was the worst journey he’d made by far, the dark and the wet making the travel rough and miserable. They had to avoid the road, however, or risk facing the witch hunters who had figured out that someone was smuggling suspected witches to the port. They hiked for hours, though it felt like days.
“Fucking rain—we’ll never find them.” The voice carried through the forest, so quiet that Warren wasn’t sure of the words.
“Shite. Avera, you need to hide. Quick, near these rocks.” A chill ran over his skin as he doused their lantern and tried to hide Avera among the rocks. How many were there? Were they looking for this woman?
When she was crouched against the rocks, nearly invisible in the dark, Warren withdrew his sword and hid himself behind a large oak a dozen feet in front of her. He wouldn’t draw their attention, but he’d be ready if they found him.
A light appeared in the forest, small but growing larger as the men approached. Five of them. Bloody hell. His breath grew short in his throat, and he had to force himself not to gasp raggedly.
“Oy, I think I hear something,” a man said, and Warren stiffened at the proximity of his voice.
A sword was pointed at Warren’s throat a moment later. No more hiding. He raised his own blade and the clash of steel echoed through the forest. The battle was fast and hard, and when the lantern dropped from the hand of the smallest man, near dark crashed around them. He couldn’t make out a single face as he felled two opponents, but he felt the slice of their blades and the keen edge of victory when their bodies hit the ground.
He was on his knees in the mud when a sharp scream broke out over the clash of swords. Sick fear for Avera welled in him, crushing the dark joy he felt in slaying his enemies. He had to get to her.
On a spurt of blind luck, he sank his blade into the gut of the man looming above him. He staggered to his feet, tripped over the body of one of the other soldiers he’d slain, and immediately collided with a fourth.
He gripped his sword more tightly, ignoring the blood that dripped down his arm, and slashed it across the middle of the man in front of him. The hooded figure, more apparition than reality, stumbled but didn’t go down. Damn bastard was tough, but it had been a good night for Warren. Three kills, but he’d make it a fourth and get Avera back and to the port.
Warren parried, blocking the other man’s strikes, before sinking his blade into his opponent’s neck. The harsh gurgle of breath was music to his ears as he jerked his blade free. He’d always liked killing these idiots. He was doing the human race a favor.
He’d just spun on his heel to race to Avera when pain exploded in his head. The last thing he remembered was falling like a great tree in the forest, filled with fear that he had failed Avera.
When he finally opened his eyes, pale golden sunlight filtered through the trees above and turned the raindrops to glittering diamonds. He groaned and pressed a hand to his head. A lump crusted with dried blood twinged when he touched it.
The memories of the pregnant woman that he’d failed pierced his brain, and he jerked upright, too distraught to curse at the pain in hi
s head. He glanced around frantically, but saw nothing except the bodies of the four men he’d felled last night.
There must have been a fifth, or more, who’d taken Avera. He staggered to his feet, intent on tracking them and tearing the heads from their bodies. The sight of one of the fallen men caught his eye and he turned, his breath caught in his throat like a boulder.
The cloak was pulled back from the face, now illuminated by the morning sun. The sight hit Warren like lightning, knocking the foundation of his life out from beneath his feet. He stumbled backward
Alan. He’d killed his own cousin.
Warren raised his hand, stared at the blood that coated it. He swallowed hard, stumbled, and looked for the next body. His feet carried him to it, though he wasn’t even sure if his brain consciously gave the command.
When he stared down at the face that had been hidden by the night’s pitch black, a buzzing started up between his ears that drowned out his sense of self.
Donal. Alan’s brother. Something hot trailed down Warren’s face as he stared at the face of his cousin, the boy who’d been like a brother to him.
Dread wedged into every corner of his body as he looked at the other two bodies. They lay close, their crumpled forms near enough to make out their features.