He searched for any sign of her. Her shout had echoed strangely, off the trees and the ravine, off the remnants of the buildings.
She could be anywhere. Damnation. His lips thinned and he squeezed Jacqueline’s hand before letting go.
“Keep your head down,” he told her quietly. “If she remembers you, you’ll be a target.”
“Do you think she’ll have forgotten?”
Phelan’s stomach bucked. “No,” he said, swallowing bile. “No, I don’t think she’s forgotten.” But there’s part of me that hopes she’s decided that she’s got bigger fish to chase—like Seamus and Leinth.
A chill crept down his spine and he hated himself a little for feeling that way, for hoping that perhaps his own flesh and blood would be the witch’s focus and not him.
But you’ve dealt with her threat for far longer and far more immediately than the others.
He caught sight of something in his peripheral vision and twisted, peering toward the sky, toward the shadow and motion he thought he’d seen.
“Phelan?”
“I thought I saw…” his voice trailed away even as his throat tightened. If she was somewhere above them…
“Déithe agus arrachtaigh,” he breathed. “Jac, get back to the tents and get Marin. Get her now.”
“Phelan, what—”
He was already moving, already running toward the wards, toward the spot where Thom was closing in on Leinth, Seamus on his heels.
“Fall back,” Phelan barked. “We have to fall back. She’s above us.”
Thom pivoted, blinking at him. “She’s what?”
Phelan stabbed a finger at the sky. “She’s above us! How far up did we push the wards?”
His friend went ashen. “Not high enough,” Thom said. “I’m sure of that.”
“She’ll go after them,” Seamus said suddenly. “She’ll go after Marin and Neve—and Cameron. Déithe agus arrachtaigh, she’ll go after the boy.”
Seamus shouted something at the members of the Wild Hunt on the field and then sprinted back toward the tents. Thom stared at Phelan, looking sick.
“Is he right?”
“Pray he’s not,” Phelan said.
The Hunt’s horn sounded and those present at the warding line charged down into the ravine to meet an enemy the rest of them couldn’t see, but maybe, just maybe, the men and women of the Wild Hunt could.
The Hecate’s mocking laughter filled their ears as Phelan and Thom stood at the edge of the ravine, staring at each other with horror etched into every line of their faces.
Gods and monsters.
“Get Leinth,” Thom said, his voice choked. “Then follow me.”
Phelan nodded mutely and moved toward the pale-faced, dagger-wielding woman even as Thom turned and ran toward the tents in the direction where his wife and Cameron had disappeared.
Have these people *never* played DnD?
Why can’t wards be made as a hemisphere?
For that matter, I’d make them spherical to stop the burrowing buggers.
OK, I’m paranoid. However, in the world they’ve found themselves in, paranoid = common sense.
It’s not that they can’t be–it’s that they weren’t. Think about who forged the wards and who’s been feeling a little sickly lately as a result…
Are the wards a constant drain?
That could be bad if the wards are really stressed.
They’re not–not so far as any of them know–but maintaining them after they’ve been set has been doing quite a number on Marin.