The Archer (The Blood Realm Series Book 3) (32 page)

“This fey will require no payment!” Casan’s confidence slipped, his eyes falling to Mac’s sword before shooting back up to his face. “I am not suggesting you hire him. No, this fey, not unlike Robin, craves a challenge. Tell him of your woman, of her spell of protection, her fey heritage that remains a mystery despite my spells. Tell him she hides as no other, with the help of the infamous Robin Hood who uses his powerful glamour to shield her.” He paused. “Though, if you do drop Robin’s name, you would do best calling him the name by which the other fey know him.”

Mac leaned closer, unable to help himself. “What name?”

“Robin Goodfellow.”

Mac barked out a derisive laugh. “You cannot be serious.”

The wizard shrugged. “I did not name him. Truth be told, it is more than likely he picked that name himself, since I can think of no one who would have called him such.”

“And who is this supreme hunter you speak of? How could I contact him—if I decide to do so?”

Now the wizard’s confidence returned in full. He crossed his arms and somehow managed to look down his nose at Mac despite their respective positions in and out of the pit.

“I want out of this cursed hole. And I want your oath—bound by blood—that you will release me—alive and unbound—as soon as the great hunter arrives.”

Mac ground his teeth. The wizard’s execution was something he’d been looking forward to, the culmination of the magic-wielder’s many crimes. Justice demanded the wizard pay for his sins, that he give his life for all the lives he’d taken.

But Marian. Robin. This wizard’s hunter may well be his only chance to catch them, to see that they paid for their crimes as well.

You can catch the wizard later. You caught him once, you can do it again.

“Very well. Now tell me about this hunter.”

Chapter Twenty-One

A scream caught in Marian’s throat like an insect snared in the sticky strands of a spider’s web. She choked on the sound, thrashing about on her bed. Her left hand struck the wall, hard, and pain shot up her arm, vibrating down her bone, but it still wasn’t enough to completely free her from the dream.

The nightmare.

A black carriage outlined in a thin layer of phantasmal white-blue light, pulled by a monstrous black horse whose eyes matched the eerie glow of the carriage. The beast pawed the air as it drew its burden down from the night sky in a descending spiral, sharp hooves silent on the wind, black mane flying behind it like the dark sail of a ghost ship. The driver wore the somber clothes of a dead man laid out at his wake. A fine black suit with a pressed white cravat at his throat. The spectral nature of driver, horse, and carriage made it hard to see details, hard to see more than what the blue-white light painted in contrast. But nothing could mask one, particular detail.

The driver had no head.

Sweat dripped down Marian’s temples as the
dullahan
drew closer and closer, the black shadowed panels ominous in the darkness, untouched by the moon’s silver beams. The Death Coach took the light, swallowed it, drowned it before it could bring relief to the utter darkness of the
dullahan’s
presence. Closer and closer it came, slowly, so agonizingly slowly, but steadily. Unstoppable.

Coming for Robin.

The
sidhe
lay on the ground in front of her, his pale body a stark contrast against the blood-stained grass. His beautiful green eyes were glazed over in death, his empty stare fixed on the sky as the night air stole the last of his warmth. The wounds on his body, bared to the moonlight by shredded clothes, spoke to the manner of his death.

Teeth.

Claws.

Marian’s hands trembled and she looked down. Red blood turned blackish-crimson in the darkness glistened on her fingers, shining like liquid candy in the moonlight. Fresh blood. Robin’s blood. A fresh scream swelled in her throat and she opened her mouth to let it out before it choked her. Her tongue moved, renewing the taste of copper, sending saliva trickling over her jaw. Marian wiped it away with a trembling hand, found her skin streaked with pink. More blood.

The scream tore free, a sound that split nerve endings, raised the hairs on the back of her neck. She shot up in bed, not her bed, but a simple construction of wood with thick leaves for a mattress and a plain cotton blanket. Sweat soaked her borrowed clothes, the green shirt and pants Robin had obtained for her to wear during her three days as a member of his band. The pants stuck to her legs, glued to her skin by her own sweat, and she fervently wished for one of her own less-restricting dresses. She shoved wet curls away from her face, lifted them to bare the skin of her neck to what little breeze permeated her temporary dwelling.

A wail slid through the night sky, a winding, piercing, hauntingly beautiful and yet terrifying note. Marian froze, her lungs holding onto her last breath, refusing to move.

The banshee.

The sound drove her off the bed, hurled her out the door so fast she nearly couldn’t keep her legs under her. She flung the door open with enough force to rattle the one room hut, the crack of hinges sharp in the still air. Night still held the world, shadows heavy in the trees that surrounded Marian in the hidden glen. But she didn’t need much light to see. Less now than she had before. Her senses vibrated with awareness, vitality—inhuman sharpness. A lump rose in her throat, but she forced it down, shoved away the growing awareness that she was changing. It didn’t matter, nothing mattered, not now. Not when Death was coming.

She searched the shadows, orienting herself, seeking the rocky hill that hid the entrance to Robin’s home. Her nostrils flared, bringing her all the rich scents the forest had to offer. Damp soil, crushed greenery, the fine dust of pollen. A lingering hint of bear, the bitter tang of goblin.

Magic-soaked spring. Robin.

Her heart thundered so loud it almost drowned out the cries of the wailing fey that still echoed in her head. Golden light crept across the ground in front of her, heralding the start of a new day, but it was a mere distraction, an irrelevant observation discarded as quickly as it was noticed. She saw no light, no sun. Only the darkness of the
dullahan’s
carriage.

She bolted in the direction of Robin’s quarters. A figure separated from the scenery, emerging from the mouth of a cave almost hidden by falling ivy and blooming wildflowers. Little John’s eyes widened as she barreled toward him, his spine straightening, shoulders tensing. She didn’t know what expression showed on her face, had only a vague inkling of what she must look like, but whatever it was, it concerned Little John. The bulky shifter raised a hand and stepped into her path as if he would stop her.

Marian didn’t stop, didn’t slow down. She pivoted on one heel, spun, and kept running, neatly avoiding the half-hearted attempt to stop her. A second later, she hit the door of Robin’s hut.

The flimsy piece of wood fared no better than the door to her own quarters, flying off its hinges and crashing into the wall in a hail of splinters. There was a muffled shout followed by a thud as Robin fell out of bed in a tangle of cotton-wrapped arms and legs. Marian fell to the ground beside him, her knees screaming in protest as the hard wooden floor met her with jarring force, scraping the skin from her knees even through the pants she wore. Robin flailed about, trying to extricate himself from his blanket, still blinking sleep from his cloudy green eyes. She grabbed his shoulders, held him still as she stared at his bare chest.

Smooth pale skin, unscarred, untouched, unbroken. No blood, no claw marks, no jagged wounds from sharp teeth. His pallor was not the sickly white of death, but merely the moonlit shade he always had, a testament to his
sidhe
heritage. She put a hand on his chest, needing to be sure, to make certain her eyes weren’t merely showing her what she wanted to see. Her fingers confirmed what her eyes told her. Robin was alive, and unharmed.

“Robin, are you all—”

“I’m fine, Little John, it’s all right.”

The conversation was mere background, the annoying howl of the wind. Marian bit her lip, holding back a cry of relief. She slid her hand down the smooth muscle of Robin’s chest, traced his ribs, the shadowed contours of his stomach. No matter what her senses told her, she couldn’t shake the images of the nightmare, the macabre memory of Robin’s mutilated body. Tears blurred her vision.

He’s alive. He’s fine.

“Marian?”

Robin’s voice was gentle, tentative. She couldn’t look up yet though, couldn’t look away. Some irrational part of her mind was certain if she looked away, if she blinked, then this would turn out to be the dream, would fade away and leave her staring at the reality of her nightmare.

A warm hand settled over hers, stayed there for a moment before easing her fingers higher. His skin slid against her palm, soft with fine, downy hairs, stopped when he pressed her hand against his chest, over his heart. A strong, calm, steady beat pulsed against her fingertips.

“I’m all right,” he said softly.

The tears flowed freely then, slid down her cheeks to drip onto the blanket still tangled around him.

“You had a nightmare?”

Marian clenched her teeth, willing the tears to stop, the lump in her throat to go away. “I saw you die.”

Her voice was barely audible, her tears and her fear trying to hold it in as if saying it out loud would make it true. Robin listened without interrupting, his hand still holding hers over his heartbeat.

“The
dullahan
…” She stopped, unable to finish that thought. “I heard… I heard the banshee.”

Robin glanced behind her. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw Little John slowly shake his head. Robin met her eyes again, his other hand rising to cup her cheek.

“It was a nightmare, Marian. I am fine.” He winked at her. “Very fine.”

The banshee’s cry echoed in her head and she jerked her attention to the open doorway. The sun shone in truth now, golden light all too cheery for the thoughts cascading through her mind. It was hard to remember the exact sound of the banshee’s cry in the face of all that warmth.

“Little John, if you would give us a moment?”

“I’m afraid I can’t. I was woken this morning by a rather insistent will o’ wisp—I believe the same one that escorted Marian here. It had news that cannot wait.”

Marian ignored the conversation, leaning in to draw a deep breath through her nose. Robin’s body was thick with the scent of sleep and worn cotton overlaying his own signature magic and spring. No copper. No blood.

“I’m sure it can wait.” Robin’s voice held an edge now and he tightened his grip on her hand, pressed it harder against his chest. “Give us a moment.”

“This news concerns Marian, not you, and I believe that she will want to hear it. Now.”

Little John’s voice was serious, firm with a tiny hint of dread curling around his words. There was no apology there despite his defiance of his leader’s wishes. Marian turned to look at him, pulling her face from Robin’s grasp, but letting him keep her hand over his heart. “What is it?”

The shifter met her eyes, held them as he noticeably braced himself for the delivery of bad news. “The sheriff has announced an archery contest. He is offering your land as the prize.”

In a flash, Marian was on her feet spinning to fully face Little John. Her vision tunneled, narrowing her world down to the shifter, the words that had just come from his lips. Her breathing grew heavier, her throat suddenly so dry she had to swallow twice before she could speak. An image of her parents flickered in her mind’s eye and she had to blink it away before words would come to her. “What did you say?”

“According to the sheriff, you abandoned your lands during an investigation into how you paid your
eric.
He has declared this to be an admission of guilt, and thereby seized your lands as payment for your crime.”

Robin growled and disengaged himself from his blanket to stand beside Marian. “He has no right. He can’t prove Marian did anything wrong, and well he knows it.”

Little John sighed and ran a hand down his beard, scratched his jaw. “Yes, unfortunately, the only person with the grounds—and dare I say, will—to challenge his decree is Marian.”

Robin’s hand closed around hers and squeezed. “She won’t go. If the sheriff thinks he can lure her into a trap with a ploy this obvious, then he’s gone mad.”

My land. My parents’ land. Their legacy, the thing they loved more than anything, the thing they always believed was the key to saving my soul. He’s made it a prize in some…
game
. Some contest.

She’d taken a step toward the door before she realized it, might not have realized it if Robin hadn’t tugged on her hand, anchored her in the room. He put himself between her and Little John as if blocking her view of the shifter could somehow make her forget his news, forget what she had to do.

The muscles in his neck corded into tight knots, visible under the smooth perfection of his skin. His grip on her hand tightened. “He’s trying to draw you out. If you go into town now, you’ll be arrested.”

“You’re right.” Marian gently extricated her fingers from his grip, pressed his hand to his side. She cupped his cheek in her palm, trailing her fingertips over the line of his jaw. Memorizing it in case this was the last time she saw him.

Her decision must have shown on her face because Robin shook his head, leaned in to press his forehead to hers. “You’ll end up his prisoner, held in a special place he reserves for those of the otherworld, those he doesn’t deem worthy of a trial. Please, Marian, you can’t go.”

“I can’t let him have that land.” Tension wrapped around her shoulders like barbed wire, tightening, stabbing painfully into her muscles until she hunched over, trying to ease the pressure. Images tormented her, images of the sheriff standing on her parents’ land, poisoning it with his vile presence. “It doesn’t matter who wins that archery contest, the sheriff will find some way to keep it for himself. That is, if he doesn’t burn it all to ashes just to punish me.”