Children of the Sea 03 - Sea Lord

pray.
    Please God, let her be safe.
    A wolf— not a wolf —materialized snarling underfoot, hot fetid breath, red, wet gullet, eyes filled with flame and hate.
    Demon.
    Conn caught the flash of teeth, the threat of claws as he swung, taking off its head in a single stroke.
    Blood spurted from severed organs. The wolf’s body fell, twitching, the spirit within extinguished.
    He heard an ululating cry, not animal, torn from an animal’s throat.
    Conn leaped over the corpse, aware of other shadows, other battles around him, growls, howls, the clash of bone and steel. Please, God. He ran up the track, between the standing stones.
    And froze at the tableau between the rocks.
    Lucy. And Iestyn. They were propped back to back like a pair of stick figures, looking as if a hard wind would blow them over. Their faces were sallow with fear or loss of blood. The boy’s right arm dangled, dark and useless.
    Conn inhaled. The smell of sulfur and singeing hair scored the back of his throat. Lucy’s torn hair rippled in the wind like a battle standard. Blood stained her skirt. She stood awkwardly, straddling a crumpled rag, a toy dog with the stuffing torn out.
    Conn’s chest tightened.
    She swayed like a tired horse, her naked hands raised. No weapon. Yet ringed around them, like the fallen apples under the trees below, was a black and bloody harvest of dead wolves.
    And beyond that . . .
    The rocks boiled with darkness.
    Conn shouted and charged up the hill.
    The scene wavered and dissolved in a rush of noise and heat. Adrenaline pumped. Time slowed. Conn swung and struck, slitting throats. Windpipes. Fast, hard, bloody work. Demons were immortal, but like the fire they sprang from, they needed oxygen to survive. They could not stay in a host that could not breathe. Around him he heard grunts, growls, and thuds.
    The wolves retreated.
    The wardens plunged in pursuit.
    Conn stepped over the ring of dead and pulled Lucy into his arms, desperate to touch her, to assure Page 86
    Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
    himself she was safe. She lunged at the same time, wrapping her arms around his neck, her body pressed tight to his. She was shaking hard enough to disguise his own tremors, her damp face buried against him.
    Her tears scalded his throat.
    His shaking hands raced over her, shoulders, back, ribs. She was whole. Unbleeding. Unbroken. Thank you, God.
    “I’m sorry,” she mumbled against his neck. “So sorry.”
    What was she apologizing for?
    “Ssh.” He petted her. “You are safe now.”
    He raised his head and met Morgan’s eyes. The fin lord’s lip curled. Conn was suddenly conscious of embracing his human lover in full sight of his assembled wardens. His hands tightened. He returned Morgan’s stare without expression. I will not give her up.
    His small force drifted back by ones and twos, the wolves slaughtered, the demons dispatched.
    Conn looked down at the top of Lucy’s head. How had she and Iestyn held off the wolves so long?
    “Iestyn . . .” she said.
    “Is all right. Everything will be all right. Brave girl.”
    She drew back. “I wasn’t brave.”
    “You fooled me,” Iestyn said behind her.
    “I’m sorry,” she repeated, her eyes huge in her white face.
    Was she possessed? No. Then . . .
    Her gaze dropped to Madadh, motionless at her feet.
    Ah. Comprehension slid into Conn like a blade, scoring his ribs, piercing his heart.
    “It’s all right,” he lied gently.
    All things mortal died. At least he had not lost her. This time.
    He crouched beside the dog and laid his hand on Madadh’s head. The bones were sharp beneath the blood-matted fur. The dog’s breath rattled, warm and weak, its golden eyes already glazed. Its rear paws twitched, as if the hound dreamed beneath his master’s desk in front of the fire.
    Conn’s eyes stung, dry and gritty. He did not cry. The selkie did not weep. Only a dog, he told himself fiercely. One of hundreds over the centuries, loyal and replaceable.
    His throat closed with grief.
    He could not heal its wounds. That gift had been lost to his people since before his father’s reign.
    This much he could do.
    He stroked the stiff fur. He sent his power through his hands, through twisted entrails, torn flesh, and tortured nerves, taking the hurt into himself, easing the dog’s pain and its passage.
    Lucy kneeled beside him, her hair falling over her face and his hands, weeping the tears that burned at the back