Morrigan's Cross (Circle Trilogy 1)

Sheer stubbornness hardened Moira’s face. “I fed him blood, and gave what little I could to ease him. I helped you treat his burns. It should be enough.”

“It’s not. Wait,” Glenna ordered as Moira spun around to leave. “Just wait. I am shaking, and short-tempered with it. Just wait. If I seemed calm before it’s because that’s the way it works for me. Handle the crisis, then fall apart. This is the falling apart portion of our program. But what I said goes, Moira.

“Just as what you said in there goes. We need him. You’re going to have to start thinking of him, and treating him like a person instead of a thing.”

“They tore her to pieces.” Moira’s eyes filled even as the defense of defiance crumbled. “No, he wasn’t there, he had no part of it. He lifted his sword for me. I know it, but I can’t feel it.”

She slapped a hand on her heart. “I can’t feel it. They didn’t let me grieve. They didn’t give me time to mourn my own mother. And now, now that I’m here it’s all grief and all rage. All blood and death. I don’t want this burden. Away from my people, from everything I know. Why are we here? Why are we charged with this? Why are there no answers?”

“I don’t know, which is another nonanswer. I’m sorry, so horribly sorry about your mother, Moira. But you’re not the only one with grief and rage. Not the only one asking questions and wishing they were back in the life they knew.”

“One day you will go back. I never can.” She yanked open the door and fled.

“Perfect. Just perfect.” Glenna dropped her head into her hands.

In the tower room, Hoyt laid each cross on a cloth of white linen. They were cool to the touch, and though the metal had dimmed somewhat, its light was bright enough to glare into his eyes.

He picked up Glenna’s cauldron. It was scorched black. He doubted it could ever be used again—wondered if it was meant to be. The candles she’d scribed and lit were no more than puddles of wax on the floor now. It would need to be cleaned. The entire room should be cleansed before any other magic was done here.

The circle was etched into the floor now, a thin ring of pure white. And his brother’s blood stained the floor and walls outside the door.

Sacrifice, he thought. There was always payment for power. His gift of his mother’s candlestand, Glenna’s of her grandmother’s ring hadn’t been enough.

The light had burned so fierce and bright, so violently hot. Yet it hadn’t scorched his skin. He held his hand up, examined it. Unmarked. Unsteady yet, he could admit. But unmarked.

The light had filled him, all but consumed him. It had twined him so truly with Glenna it had been almost as if they’d been one person, one power.

That power had been heady and fantastic.

And it had whirled out like the wrath of the gods at his brother. Struck down the other half of him while the sorcerer had ridden the lightning.

Now he was empty, hollowed out. What power that remained in him was like lead, heavy and cold, and the lead was coated thick with guilt.

Nothing to be done now, nothing to do but put order back into the room. He busied himself, calmed himself, with the basic tasks. When King rushed into the room, he stood still, arms at his sides, and took the blow he saw coming full in the face.

He had a moment to think it was like being hit by a battering ram as he was launched back against the wall. Then simply slid bonelessly to the floor.

“Get up. Get up, you son of a bitch.”

Hoyt spat out blood. His vision wavered so he saw several black giants standing over him with ham-sized fists bunched. He braced a hand on the wall, dragged himself to his feet.

The battering ram struck again. This time his vision went red, black, shimmered sickly to gray. King’s voice went tinny in his ears, but he struggled to follow the command to get back up.

There was a flash of color through the gray, a stream of heat through the iced pain.

Glenna flew into the tower. She didn’t bother to shove at King, but rammed her elbow viciousl

y into his midsection, then all but fell on Hoyt to shield him.

“Stop it! Get away from him. Stupid bastard. Oh Hoyt, your face.”

“Get away.” He could barely mumble the words, and his stomach pitched violently as he pushed at her and tried to rise again.

“Go ahead and throw one. Come on.” King spread his arms, then tapped his chin. “I’ll give you a free shot. Hell, I’ll give you a couple of them, you miserable son of a bitch. It’s more than you gave Cian.”

“He’s gone then. Get away from me.” Hoyt shoved at Glenna. “Go ahead,” he told King. “Finish it.”

Though his fists remained bunched, King lowered them a fraction. The man was barely standing, and blood ran from his nose, his mouth. One eye was already swelling shut. And he just swayed there, waiting to take another hit.