Page 95 of A Sanctuary from Shadow
His gaze narrowed upon Shorty as she glanced once more over her shoulder, her matted brown hair catching on a sapling. “Clever minx.” His predatory magic writhed in anticipation of a challenge. “Not clever enough.”
At nightfall, Pete loped to the cave and peered through the vines to find Shorty huddled beneath her filthy cape, curled into a shivering ball on the cave floor. Eyes clenched, she fisted her favorite tiny pink device. Two white laces carried the faint drum of music to her arched ears.
Why hadn’t she made a fire for warmth and light when she’d done so earlier to burn her tether? Perhaps she realized the glow might draw him. Perhaps she knew most caves in Evereostre produced Luna moss. Regardless, the damned beyn could withstand discomfort in stoic grace for the sake of survival, after all. Her constant bellyaching was a damned ruse.
Pete, you daft clod. He grinned at the trembling waif in the cave.Can’t even tell the difference between a sniveling mouse and a wily vixen, can you? Jaysus, Sedge’ll fair bust his gut if you’re ever scuttered enough to unspool this yarn.
Pete hunkered down in the grassy shadows, petting Sionna’s sleek back as they waited for Shorty to sleep. Though he’d relish another hands-on scuffle with her, especially after she’d shredded his nerves to hash, taking her unconscious was wiser. Which is why he’d twitched in annoyance when she silenced her music box and opened her eyes, shocked and awed at the patina walls sheltering her.
So, she hadn’t known about the Luna moss. That made sense if he believed her origins.
Instead of sleeping, though she resembled a wilting flower, Shorty rose and forged further into the cave like Jeanne Baret herself.
She’ll return, he knew.She left all her belongings.He wriggled into the moss, prepared to wait.
Pete had nearly dozed off after hours of non-stop pursuit when Sionna whimpered, prancing at his side.
He knew his hound well. Beneath her black and tan fur was a yellow belly, and a swift breeze often sent her into hiding. Yet, when he whiffed the dissonant brine of sea salt, he agreed with Sionna. Trouble was afoot.
Fomorians, he realized, enveloping Sionna and himself in his shadow cloak. Just as predatory as himself, the Fomorians would easily sniff them out. If they blended into the dark, however, the monsters might abandon their search. They lacked Pete’s patience, though they were the most vicious fae he’d encountered in this world.
Gentian had forced him into the ring with one of the wankers once. Despite being half-starved, Pete had been the prince’s only fighter who’d even come close to matching the Fomorian’s size. Pete had won the brawl but nearly lost his life to the poison of his opponent’s razor-sharp bite. The fiend had tried to gnaw off Pete’s leg. So, he’d panicked and crushed the Fomorian’s great domed head with his own battle club.
Pete killing Gentian’s prized Fomorian acquisition had enraged the ancient Danann. He’d let Pete suffer with fever for days before one of the gaolers, who often bet on Pete in the ring, had sneaked a stem healer—and fellow Forgotten—into his cage to save his life.
At the time, Pete had begged Olea to leave him to the almighty. He’d endured enough of the endless captivity, violence, and starvation in Gentian’s court. But her glowing hands had spread over his rotting leg anyway. “You’re a fighter, Pete,” she’d said. “You’re going to fight your way out of here one day.”
And he had. In a manner of speaking. Yet, when he spied three enormous Fomorians climbing the hill, noses high, he knew his prowess meant nothing. One Fomorian was risky enough to fight. Three—that was suicide.
So, he stayed put, clutching Sionna’s panting body, and prayed to Danu for their deliverance. Not until he heard the rustling within the cave did he spare a thought for Shorty. Then his innards tightened.
While the cunning beyn had deceived and bedeviled him, he knew she’d only done so for freedom. Relatable motives. She had some lofty opinions, aye, but she seemed good at heart, and he couldn’t simply sit on his laurels and listen whilst those brutes raped or devoured her like mutton. If he did that, she’d be right. He’d never again be worthy of the lord’s love.
And there was the ordination to consider.
His blood pulsing, Pete dug his fingers into the ground. He heard the scratchy voice of one in the threesome declare, “There’s prey to be had here.”
Faith and begorrah, darlin’! Please stay hidden!
He bit back a furious oath at Shorty’s chattering in the distance. Who in bleeding hell was she jabbering to, anyway? Did the eejit have no intuition for looming danger? How in Christ had she made it to a score in age?
Then they caught her, and Pete scraped his face. Praying for divine intervention.
When Shorty seemed to sway the young crown lord to her plight, Pete thought that Danu had heard his prayer. Of course, then talk of taking her heart disillusioned him.
At her ghastly screams for help, Pete vented a frustrated rumble, whipped off his shadow cloak (it only served him in darkness, anyhow), and leapt to his feet.
He found Shorty flattened to the ground, a Fomorian’s hand around her throat. She writhed, frantic for breath, as the mental goliath above her knifed her bodice laces. The older Fomorians stood in the background, assessing his work.
Pete surged through the ivy and rammed the kneeling Fomorian in the gut with his shoulder, tackling him to the glowing stone floor. The Fomorian’s domed head cracked against a stalagmite, and he slackened beneath Pete, unconscious. The knife clanged into another cavern.
Hacking for breath, Shorty bleared at Pete, her milky skin flushed red, her large eyes as pale as custard. The hue of her fear, he assumed. But at least she was still breathing.
Pete righted himself, drew his sword, and stepped over Shorty as her shield. He flexed his fingers around his sword pommel as the remaining Fomorians turned on him, seething. Because he’d dared attack their crown lord. The crown lord who’d meant to skewer an innocent youngblood’s heart.
Pete squared his jaw, cracked his neck, his prowess fiending for a fight. “There now,” he growled at his remaining opponents. “Fancy a tangle with someone your own size?”
The Fomorians drew spiked war clubs heavy enough to smash bone.
