“Leinth!”
Phelan grabbed her arm when she didn’t respond, which—in hindsight—he realized was a mistake as she spun, nearly laying his face open with one of the nasty blade she was dual-wielding. He lurched backward, carefully honed reflexes the only thing saving him this time.
Leinth grit her teeth in a snarl, her hand dropping. “Idiot,” she spat. “What’s wrong with you? We have a battle to win.”
Phelan glanced toward the score of the Wild Hunt that plunged through the wards and down into the ravine, watching one spit a dirae that had been invisible up until the moment of its untimely demise. “We have bigger problems,” he said. “The Hecate is here.”
“I’m aware,” Leinth said, her voice as cold as a winter wind.
“We lost track of her,” Phelan said, hoping against hope that the words would somehow sink in and that Leinth would listen to what he said next. “We’re afraid she’s inside the wards and headed for camp. Headed for Cameron and Neve and Marin.”
Leinth stared at him in stunned silence for a moment, her expression slack and eyes widening a fraction. “How did she get inside of the wards?” she asked, her voice a bare whisper, like a skate’s blade scraping on ice.
“They’re not a dome,” Phelan said. “We never pushed them that high. We haven’t been able to. Marin—” he broke off, throat tightening. There was no delicate way of saying it, not that came to mind in that moment. “Marin’s not in any state right now to try to do more than she’s already done. Those wards are her workings more than they’re anyone else’s and I’m afraid if she tries to do more, it’ll kill her outright.”
Neither of them breathed for a few seconds as they stared at each other and the Hunt did the dirty work of defense, covered by some of the others, who remained safely behind the wards—their inivisble wall that the Hecate may or may not have violated.
“We’re wasting time,” Phelan whispered. “If she’s there, I need you with us.”
Leinth swore and shook herself, then brushed past him on her way back to the tents.
