Matt froze.
There was someone else in the forge, lurking in the shadows.
He let the door fall shut behind him. The sound of the Hunt’s horn echoed hollowly, muffled by the walls. His hands tightened around the haft of his battle-ax, taking a slow, deep breath, forcing himself to relax by inches, to try to think clearly.
I should have stayed where I was. I shouldn’t have come back. He’d come back for a few extra blades, the ones they’d just finished, the ones he should have grabbed the minute they heard there was trouble.
But he’d forgotten in the midst of all of the excitement and left them behind—and then doubled back to get them once it seemed certain that Thom had everything in hand without his help.
We probably don’t need them anyway.
He stood near the door, silent and listening. The forge fire was banked, the coals glowing only faintly in the darkness, casting a little warmth but almost no light to see by.
I’m not alone. Who’s hiding here?
He took a slow breath.
Something warm eased up behind him. An arm snaked around his waist, hard, holding tight and dragging him back against a decidedly feminine form, but one as solid and muscled as he expected someone like Sif might be. He felt the cold kiss of steel against his throat and stiffened further. A soft breath tickled his ear.
“Well, well,” the Hecate purred. “What do we have here?”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Matt’s hands tightened further around the haft of his ax.
The Hecate tsked softly. “Don’t even think it,” she said softly. “Drop it like a good little hero unless you want your throat laid open.”
There wasn’t much choice.
He dropped the ax.
He could almost feel her smile.
“Good druid,” she said. “Now we can talk.”
