Heart of the Fae (The Otherworld #1)(108)

Sorcha stood slowly, measuring him with a weighted stare. “You’re angry at me.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“He doesn’t deserve your help.”

“He’s alive. That means he deserves my help. I will never stop wanting to heal people, and if you want me to then we can end this now. I help others. That’s what I do.”

She watched a muscle jump on his jaw. His eyes canted away from hers, staring at the wall until he finally nodded. “So be it. Come with me.”

He did not reach out a hand, and she did not take his arm. They stood still in the hallway filled with blood, looking away from each other. A rift between them grew, splintering and splitting, a canyon tear apart their tenuous alliance.

Sorcha should have been heartbroken. She should have been sad, but she was angry. How dare he be angry at her for trying to save another life?

Her heart whispered to be gentle. That the man standing before her needed as much healing as the man behind. His brother was here to kill him. Eamonn likely would not be looking for those who were just doing a job compared to those who wanted him dead.

Maybe they all wanted him dead. She had no way of knowing.

He glanced at her and she met his gaze as his eyes widened in fear.

“Sorcha!”

She heard the crunching sound of armor moving before she turned. The faerie she’d saved stood behind her. She saw nothing but cold determination in his gaze and a knife that seemed to glow in his hands.

Time slowed. She heard her own exhalation and his hand began to descend. Sorcha ducked, her palms dragging across the plates of his armor. Her fingers slid across metal and gripped a sharpened piece.

She gasped as he fell against her, staggering in pain. She squeezed her eyes shut as hot blood poured over her hands. The jagged edge of armor bit into her fingers, but sliced into his chest even farther when she tried to move.

Her hands trembled, but she couldn’t make them move. He gasped in her ear, the rattling wheeze of a dying breath. She knew it well. Sorcha had heard it many times, but never so close.

Eamonn might have killed the others, but she had killed this one.

“Sorcha.” Eamonn’s armored hands pulled her away from the body. It fell to the ground with a wet thud. “Sorcha, I’m sorry you had to do that.”

“I didn’t mean to kill him.”

“You had to protect yourself, mo chroí.”

“I didn’t know what to do.”

“The first one is always the hardest. But we do not have time for this.”

“I should check for a heartbeat,” she said. She tried to turn but he wouldn’t even let her look at the body.

“No. No, we leave now Sorcha. I need to hide you from him.”

“From who?” Her mind felt foggy. All she could feel was blood on her hands and she should have been comfortable with the feeling. How many times had she felt blood on her hands? Pouring from between a woman’s legs. It was life.

But this was death.

“Sorcha.”

“I thought you and Bran looked like you were dancing. It was beautiful to watch you spar. I was so impressed. I thought real battle would look like that, but it doesn’t.”

“Practicing is one thing. It’s easy to make the movements look graceful when there is no blade striking at your throat. Real battle is gritty, messy, brutal. I’m sorry you had to see it.”

“Mo chroí,” she whispered. “You called me your heart.”

He gripped her hand and did not answer. They raced through the halls, ducking around soldiers. The castle rang with the screams of Fae who had not gone to the forefront to fight the king’s army.

Sorcha couldn’t handle any more death. She squeezed her eyes shut and let Eamonn guide her across the floors. Perhaps he knew that she wouldn’t look. Eventually, he swung her into his arms and charged through the endless doors and hidden rooms.

He burst through a side door. She curled against his chest and whimpered, wanting nothing more than for this battle to end. For her life to be back to normal. To wake up in her own bed and have this be nothing more than a wondrous tale for her sisters.

Wind brushed her hair across her face, cool and calming.

On the breeze, she heard a haunting song. A cry that trembled from a woman’s lips, speaking of lost love and a death that came too soon.

Eamonn stood still.

“Bean sidhe,” he said. “I have no quarrel with the Unseelie.”

“Where is my brother?”

“I had assumed he returned to you.”

“No twisted truths, Seelie king. I want my brother returned safely.”

Sorcha felt his nod against the top of her head. “I have use for him yet.”

“He will not fight for you. We do not need another war with the Seelie Fae on top of everything else which has happened. Bran wants a war. He does not speak for the Unseelie council.”

“I have never thought he did. He gave up that life long ago.”

“Good.” The banshee wailed, and the wind picked up again. “See that my brother returns home safely.”

“After he assists me.”

“The deal is struck.”

The cold touch of the wind felt like a woman’s hand. It slid across her brow and down her arms. Sorcha heard a quiet whisper on the breeze.