The Drowned Woods (27)

And perhaps they might have made it out of that cellar, if a certain corgi hadn’t rushed at their attacker.

Trefor had been bouncing around Fane’s ankles, making excited little yipping sounds. At the sight of the fallen man, the corgi rushed forward, tail whipping in glee as he fastened his teeth to the man’s boot and gave a jerk of his head.

The man bellowed—more in outrage than in pain. Trefor growled and lowered his front legs, settling into his stubborn stance. Fane usually saw it when Trefor played with a piece of frayed rope or spotted a hound much larger than himself. “Come on,” said Fane, his voice rising in alarm. “Trefor!”

The corgi gave another yank. Mayhap the dog thought he was helping or perhaps he just really, really wanted to taste fine leather.

The man raised a hand to strike at Trefor and Fane lunged forward, pushing Mer’s arm aside.

Fane took the punch intended for the dog on his left shoulder. Pain jolted down his arm like a lightning strike. Jaw clenched, Fane hunched over Trefor, trying to scoop up the dog and get him to safety.

The boot came free. Trefor growled in triumph while the man let out an even louder bellow. He tried to stand again, but he was hopping on one booted foot and the floor still shone with that thin layer of ice. The man stumbled, grabbing for something at his belt. It was a hunting knife. “You wretch, give that back—”

Time seemed to slow. Fane knew that if he was going to fight back, this was the moment. He would have to knock that arm aside, strike so that the knife would fall. But to let that blow land would be to trigger the magic within him. He wouldn’t be able to stop, not once that first punch landed.

Could he do it? Kill this stranger?

The answer came to him in a heartbeat—and it was almost a relief.

No. No, he could not. He would not. It didn’t matter what orders he’d been given, who he served. This power was his alone and if it were up to him, he would never let it have hold of him again.

He saw the knife come down and Fane swallowed, bracing himself for that flash of agony.

But the man’s arm never fell. Rather, his expression did.

All the fury left the nobleman’s face; his arm was poised in the air, held there. The man’s shoulders rolled, as if he were trying to free himself from invisible bonds. Then, his face went utterly bloodless.

The knife clattered to the ground but Fane wasn’t looking for it. He was watching the man, whose face had gone from pale to red in a matter of heartbeats. Fear, true terror, flickered through his eyes.

Then Fane heard the slight inhalation behind him.

Mer.

Her hand was outstretched, her teeth sunk so deep into her lower lip that it looked painful. But that wasn’t what drew Fane’s attention.

For the first time since he’d met her, her hair wasn’t hanging across her left cheek. It must have been pushed back in the scuffle. Her chin was raised high, her warm eyes blazing with an inner fire. And upon her left cheek, near the corner of her eye, was a deep red scar.

No, not a scar. It was a brand. It took a few moments for his eyes to follow the curving shapes and see them for what they were: lines laced into a knot. It marked her as a prisoner, as property, and Fane felt a flare of anger. He knew something of being bound. But even the otherfolk, for all that they did not understand human mercy, had never marked him. His own bonds had been through word and obligation, but with the knowledge that his freedom would be earned and given. He could not imagine a human being branding another.

A strangled gurgle made Fane’s gaze jerk back around to the man. He was tugging at his collar, trying to loosen it, and Fane realized what she was doing. She was using her power just as she said she would: for survival. Her eyes were hard, her teeth sinking even deeper into her lip.

She was killing that man. And Fane couldn’t stand by and let that happen, either.

Fane was caught between them—unable to strike either, unable to move. So he did the only thing he could think of. He ducked down, snatched the boot away from Trefor, and then he tossed it at Mer.

That broke her concentration. She reached up to grab the boot out of the air. It had a few teeth marks and a dribble of dog drool.

The man slumped to the ground, gasping in great shaky heaves. He coughed, turning toward the stairs. “Good,” he wheezed. “About time—”

Fane heard it a moment later—footsteps above them. Fresh fire coursed through his veins, rekindling his heart into a gallop. They had to leave now, before this man’s allies arrived and called for the guard. Fane whistled for Trefor, who’d been eyeing the man’s other boot with a kind of calculating avarice. The corgi threw Fane a disappointed look.

But before any of them could make it to the cellar door, a new figure appeared on the stairs.

In the sharp lantern light, Fane almost didn’t make out his features. Then he saw the prominent ears and pale hair.

Renfrew stood on the stairs, his arms crossed and brows raised. He regarded the situation like a man who’d found rats in his cellar. That the three of them appeared to be grappling for their lives did not seem to occur to him—or if it did, it didn’t seem to matter. Renfrew ambled down the stairs, picked his way across the icy floor, then reached for the wine rack. “I told you to retrieve the red,” he said to the coughing man. “And as for you”—he turned his gaze on Mer and Fane—“would you mind not attacking the other allies in our little venture?”