The Sun Sídhe

12 - The Taste of Iron

The wind picked up, whipping Morrigan's hair about her face like a writhing halo. Sobs shook through her thin body; Ronan wrapped his arms around her to keep her from falling. Concern and fear lined his face as he studied the shifting mists around us.

"I'm so sorry," she said hoarsely. "He broke through my—I must've removed the curse too late—" The words faded into a jumbled mess as blood continued to seep from her eyes. I didn't know what she was seeing, and was rather glad for it. We couldn't afford more than one breakdown at a time.

"Don't cry, Morrigan." The voice was smooth, filled with false concern. A man materialised from the mist before us—I hadn't sensed his presence until he spoke, nor seen any trace of him. He wore his blond hair long, braided back in some uselessly complex fashion. While not as bejewelled as Morri, he wore several golden trinkets and his clothes were as fine as I'd imagine any nobleman's to be. By all means, he was young and handsome, with the right angles and figure: he was even tall for a sídhe, which really just meant that he wasn't embarrassingly tiny compared to Ronan. With the man's ridiculous choice in clothing and the narcissism radiating off of him, he'd make a perfect prince.

I hated princes.

"I'm not here to harm you," he continued, still addressing Morrigan. The sharpness in his eyes contradicted his soft tone. "So what death are you seeing?"

She pressed her lips together, those bleeding eyes wandering about sightlessly. "Shayne," she whispered. "Don't."

"Must I repeat myself? I'm not seeking a fight." Now he sounded annoyed. Grand.

There was no reply besides her shuddering gasps. Ronan shifted in front of her, drawing his knife with his free hand. Disgust flickered through me at the sting of iron in the air, stronger than usual—every instinct told me it did not belong in this realm. It was foreign. I shoved the feeling aside, grinding my teeth together. Flames itched the inside of my palms.

"It shall remain a mystery, then," Shayne sighed, as if impending death was of no consequence. "Aeden. Come with me."

"No." Aeden remained where he was, a few paces to my left. His voice was flat, devoid of any emotion. I'd never seen him so still. Power steadily gathered in the air around him; his eyes flared pure gold.

"I know you want to kill me, but let us not start." The man tsked and gestured with his left hand.

A spear shot from the mist, followed by a man dressed in the garb of a soldier—he had armour and everything. Aeden moved as if he'd expected it, grasping the human's arm and twisting. There was a sharp snap; the man barely had time to cry out before Aeden hooked an arm around his neck and broke it.

Morrigan wailed, cringing into Ronan, and I resisted the urge to march over and clap a hand over her mouth. She was horribly loud, and her voice never failed to strike a deep chord of annoyance within me. All that raw horror itched at my heart. I couldn't focus.

Aeden kicked the body aside, though pain creased his face. There were red marks on his forearm—he must have had to touch the armour to get as close as he had. "These ambushes of yours are growing predictable," he said, his tone easing into something more casual. Still, the words were wound tight.

"It does feel repetitive," I muttered, peering deeper into the mist. It took enough focus to make my head spin, but I could faintly detect threads of energy around us, obscuring my senses and making it difficult to focus. Some tugged at my mind, subtle enough that I could have missed it. Cael. Sure enough, I spotted him lingering beyond Shayne's shoulder. His dull eyes were unfocused as he returned my stare, as if drunk or simply uninterested. A few more figures blurred in and out of sight in a loose circle around us.