Children of the Sea 03 - Sea Lord

somewhere. Beyond the castle walls. He felt her trembling like a kite in the grip of the wind, a vibration in his fingertips and his mind.
    Griff stirred. “My lord.”
    The interruption almost yanked Conn back, but he clung to that spark of connection, pouring himself along the filament, spooling out his power, trying to reach her, desperate to touch . . .
    The thread snapped.
    His breath went. No.
    The contact broke.
    Lucy.
    She was gone.
    Conn’s blood roared in his ears.
    “My prince?” Griff’s voice, worried. “My lord, are you all right?”
    “Are you all right?”
    Iestyn’s strained voice penetrated the roaring in Lucy’s ears, pierced the fog in her head.
    The last attack had almost done them in. Done her in. She was reeling with shock, bone-weary with fatigue.
    “ Don’t run, ” Iestyn had ordered.
    Not a problem. She couldn’t move her legs. Could barely raise her arms. Her shoulders were on fire, her vision hazy with exhaustion.
    “Fine,” she croaked.
    Alive, anyway. Breathing. At least, she told herself the whimpering gasps that escaped her throat qualified as breathing.
    Madadh made the same sounds at her feet. Her nails curled into her palms. Somehow the hound had crawled to her, smearing an ominous dark trail behind him in the dirt. She had blasted the wolf that ripped open the dog’s belly, but she could not kneel to care for or comfort him, could not take her eyes off the snarling, snapping pack prowling the perimeter of their dead.
    She shifted. Trembled. Wolves attacked the weak. She had to be strong.
    But the evil they faced sapped her strength and drained her will. She felt its malice like a weight in her chest, a pressure in her head, pushing, always pushing against her mind’s defenses, poking cruel fingers through the chinks, searching for an opening, probing for a weakness.
    She blocked it out. Blocked everything out, the grief and the fear and the stench of blood and burnt flesh.
    She could no longer smell the orchard or the sea.
    Soon the pressure in her head wouldn’t matter. Each rush drew the circle tighter like a noose. Soon there would be no room left to strike, and she and Iestyn would go down under a mass of thrashing bodies and rending white fangs.
    Her eyes stung with sweat. With tears. Her shoulders ached. What more could they do, a bleeding boy and an exhausted girl against a pack of wolves? Her legs shook. How long could they stand?
    She blinked. Too many teeth. Too many eyes. Circling, with all the menace and none of the grace of wolves.
    She had never been a fighter. Caleb was the fighter, steadfast and strong. Like the lead soldier in the fairy tale he used to read to her. She would have liked to see Caleb one more time. Caleb and his gun. The thought made her smile. She would have liked to say good-bye.
    Her smile faded. Would her family even know what had happened to her?
    And Conn. She would have liked to . . .
    No.
    Her resolve was a lump in her stomach, plain and cold and about as heroic as oatmeal. But she was not ready to say good-bye to Conn.
    She licked her cracked lips. In her life, in her world, the cavalry didn’t ride to the rescue. Her prince Page 85

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    never came. That hadn’t stopped her from trying.
    From surviving.
    She uncurled her bloody palms. She stiffened her wobbly knees. When the demons sprang again, she was ready for them.
    Conn smelled smoke.
    Seared flesh. Scorched earth. The sizzle of ozone. All carried on the wind like the stench of branding or the plume of a funeral pyre.
    Griff coughed.
    Brychan swore.
    They were already breathing hard, running hard. In the sea, they were all power and grace. On land, they ran, feet pounding, legs pumping, weapons hastily belted on, bouncing against backs and thighs. Sweat trickled down faces and chests.
    Conn had sacrificed stealth for speed, numbers for readiness. It took time to assemble; longer to arm.
    Time he did not have.
    Barely a dozen wardens followed as he bolted out the gate, as he trampled the orchard flowers and thundered up the slope, following the broken whisper of his name.
    The air felt viscous. Thick. Conn floundered like a mortal in the sea, carried on a wave of dread.
    The acrid smell of smoke and blood drifted from the rocks like the reek of a human battlefield. A bird cried in outrage, rising like a black flag in the sky.
    Air knifed his lungs. Please, God . . .
    The selkie did not