Curse of the Celts by Clara O'Connor (most romantic novels .TXT) 📕

“Stop, Cassandra.”

The voice seemed so far away. It was distracting me. I needed to focus.

Arms grappled me, pulling me away from the oily tentacles I chased.

“Cassandra, you have to stop. You’re hurting him.” Marcus’s voice was low but I heard him. I blinked and looked down. Devyn’s entire body was strained and rigid, arching in protest. I pulled back. If my power couldn’t help me fix him, then it would help me break someone else.

I whirled on Gideon, whose attention I had now thoroughly caught.

“What did you do?”

He tilted his head to one side. “You have an awful lot of juice for a latent.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet.”

“No, Cassandra.” Bronwyn stepped from the shadows, bow in hand, the arrow already drawn. “I’ve got this.”

All the men had risen and were poised to attack, but Bronwyn had chosen her position well. She was at the edge of the firelight, well away from all the warriors.

“Gideon. What did you do?”

The laconic Briton smiled up at her from where he sat, the only one who seemed unconcerned by the danger he was in.

“Bronwyn, is that any way to treat a friend?” His scar caught the flickering light as he smiled across at her.

“I have plenty of friends.” She shrugged. “Cousins though… Well, I’ve only ever had the one and, what can I say, I missed him.”

“You were the only one who did,” Gideon said.

Bronwyn’s face grew cold and blank.

“Maybe so. But I have him back now, and you have no right. Why would you do this?” Bronwyn seemed to take a pause at her own question, catching the eye of one of the tall warriors who had been backing away from the light and closer to her. He stilled as she shook her head to indicate he should move no further. “Rion most certainly didn’t command this.”

A flicker of something flashed across the face of the previously impervious warrior.

She looked around at the men. “Think about it. Gideon was to bring Devyn and his travelling companions north. You think Rion wants him dead?”

She paused at this as a couple of the men grunted in assent and exhaled in annoyance.

“Poisoned on the side of the road. If he wanted Devyn dead, don’t you think he would want to do it himself? Think, you idiots.”

The men shuffled uneasily, a few of them taking surreptitious steps towards Gideon who had decided to get up on his feet in light of the new atmosphere in the camp that grew tense and shifted out of his favour. Enough that his hand now rested lightly on the hilt of his sword.

“Poison?” The dark-haired Briton shook his head, his other hand raised in protest. “No, Bronwyn. I would never kill a man like that, even him.”

I took a step towards him, the fire flaring as I advanced. Gideon’s eyes widened, his brows drawing together before he turned his attention back to the armed woman facing him on the other side.

“You know me. Is this my style?”

“I don’t care. The fact is that it has been done. By your hand.” Bronwyn pulled back on her bow.

“Wait.” He took his hand off the hilt of his sword and pulled at his belt, letting it drop to the ground. “If the blade was poisoned it was not with my knowledge. Maybe something was put on it to slow us down.”

“Slow us down?” Bronwyn repeated. “So that York can catch us before we can reach Mercia?”

Gideon ignored her accusation, nodding his head to Marcus. “He belongs in York anyway. Let the steward have what he wants, give us a cure, and then we can be on our way and deliver Rion’s oathbreaker back to him. No harm done.”

“No harm done?” I practically screeched, every fibre of my being wanting to lash out at him. How could he be so indifferent to the fact that Devyn’s life hung by a thread? Was this really his justification for delivering Marcus to the people who were chasing us? If Bronwyn didn’t kill him, I would.

Bronwyn didn’t even glance in my direction.

“You did this at the Steward of York’s command?” she asked Gideon quietly.

His face shuttered.

She hissed, her dark eyes flashing. “You would betray Mercia this way?”

Gideon stiffened. “I have betrayed no one. Our priority should be to get Marcus Courtenay to safety. Whether that is York or further north is not my concern. My allegiance is to the Lakelands. Rion wants the Griffin. If there was something on my blade, I did not put it there. I know it plays into York’s hands that we go slowly and that York has a grudge against the old Griffin. Call it an unfortunate coincidence or bad luck, I don’t care.”

And with that he ended the argument, striding away from the paltry comfort of the campfire. Once Marcus had done what he could to cool Devyn down, we curled up beside him for the night.

As the first light softened the darkness, I felt myself drift slowly awake, as if I were one with the floor of the forest. My mind swept out across the land, through the soil laced with roots and its covering of dried leaves and twigs, kernels of life already readying themselves for the spring that lay ahead. My mind wove and melded with the great trees and their steadfastness, winging across babbling brooks and around solid boulders, delighting in the freedom and sheer life of it all. Outward and beyond. It was a luxurious meander through the life of the forest and I revelled in the organic life, feeling a sense of belonging that I yearned for as I danced along. Ever outward, mile after mile of it, none of the smothering, teeming populace of the city, just hill after hill, clean, crisp air, the warmth of the trees, and life that cared not at all for our momentary passing.

Until I hit a sense of wrongness that seemed to catch me and pull me towards it by its gravity, a dark and swirling menace.