“You look better, Wanderer.”
Phelan glanced up from his crouched position in the snow, toward the source of the voice. A wry smile twisted his lips as he watched the black-cloaked figure approach, carefully, gingerly, as if he were afraid that something would suddenly leap up from the ground to bite him.
Of course, the way Marin sets wardings, something just might.
“You’re late,” Phelan said mildly, straightening from his crouch. From the other end of the barrow, J.T. and Thordin gave Cariocecus wary looks, the pair ever-watchful when it came to the war godling.
“I wasn’t aware that we were on a schedule,” Cariocecus said, shifting his cloak with a slight grimace. “Damn cold winter.”
Phelan nodded. “The meteorfall screwed up the weather. It is what it is and the survivors have to deal with it now.” He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, already starting to lose feeling in the tips. Even with spring on the doorstep, it was cold in western Michigan—what was left of it. “What news?”
“They’re moving,” Cariocecus said, his gaze wandering to the snow-shrouded ruins of lecture halls and the university theatre complex. “Hecate and her allies. I’ve heard rumblings.”
“From where?” Thordin ask as he and J.T. came to Phelan’s side. “What quarters?”
Cariocecus made a face. “I’m not without my contacts and my ways, Odinson.”
Thordin held up a finger. “I am no one’s son anymore, warmonger. I am exiled and forsaken. Don’t forget that.”
“Right,” Cariocecus drawled, his focus shifting back to Phelan. “She hasn’t lost interest in you, Wanderer. She’ll come after you again.”
Phelan shook his head slowly. “She was always going to—either me or Seamus.”
“She’s not exactly interested in your cousin any longer,” Cariocecus said quietly. “It’s you she’s after, Phelan. The true Taliesin.”
“She can’t have him,” J.T. said. “Jac’s laid claim.”
He almost blushed at that and didn’t bother to hide his smile. “She has at that.” His smile faded as he regarded the serious expression on Cariocecus’s face. “How much time do we have?”
“Probably not nearly enough,” Cariocecus said quietly. “But there never is, is there?”
“No,” Phelan agreed. “There never is.”
