Neve met Phelan’s gaze and gave a nearly imperceptible shake of her head. Now wasn’t the time to admit to any sort of weakness, but she clearly knew what he was thinking.
Phelan shivered and dropped back down onto the log next to Marin. “They didn’t have to thrash Cariocecus to get us not thinking clearly. We’re already scattered with Leviathan’s appearance.” And, truth be known, still not fully recovered from everything else that’s happened lately.
Marin’s cold fingers found his and squeezed.
Phelan sighed.
Anselm arched a brow at them, tilting his head slightly to one side. “You seem distressed.”
“Only at the usual levels,” Marin said, mustering a smile from somewhere. “But Phelan’s right, Leviathan showing up like that has us all rattled, especially with Thom and the others away.”
Made worse by the fact that we’re not sure if he’s friend or foe. Phelan frowned at the fire. No, make that fairly certain he’s a foe, he just wants us to think otherwise. “I don’t think it was Leviathan that had Cariocecus attacked,” he said slowly. “It doesn’t fit his style.”
“I’ll bow to your wisdom in that, Taliesin,” Anselm said. “You would know better than I.”
Phelan winced, though he knew it was the truth—he would know better than the old soldier, whether he liked it or not.
His fingers itched and he felt cold, too cold. He was exhausted, but wanted to pace, wanted to move.
Nothing’s right, everything’s wrong. Been in one spot for too long now, too long.
He tried to clamp down on the feeling. His fingers twitched. Marin looked at him, brow furrowing.
“Phelan?”
“I’m fine,” he said, fighting hard to keep his voice even and stead. “I’m fine.”
What’s another lie?
“No,” Neve said, coming to her feet, her face like a stormcloud. “No, you’re not.”
