Sleepwalking. She had to be, for she barely blinked, not noticing him in the least. Not that he wanted her to see him. Instinct told him not yet. The fog parted for her as she moved toward the pasture just beyond the barn. It was then he saw them: spirits. His heart began to pound. He’d not seen spirits since Mab had taken him. So many now, hovering and weaving in and out of shape. Shining, translucent shells of those they’d once been in life. And they waited for Eliza.
Fear grabbed hold of Adam, and he strode forward, pulling his sword from its scabbard with a decisive ring of steel. It did not matter that steel couldn’t touch them. Adam simply needed to feel his weapon in his hand. He’d figure the rest out as he went along. But one thing was certain. They would not take her. Even if he had to become a spirit to fight them.
“Eliza.” His deep call rang out through the night. She did not falter but moved ever closer to the waiting ring of ghosts. Desperation gave his voice a sharp bite, turned his stride into a jog. “Eliza, stop!”
She paid him no head. Moonlight shone down, illuminating her in brilliant silver-white, and her slim arms rose as if to beckon the waiting dead. They surged forward, swarming her, even as Adam shouted his outrage. Unaffected, she raised her head to the night, tears leaving shining trails down her cheeks, and a laugh bubbling up from her throat. A mad, disjointed cackle.
Adam skidded to a halt, gooseflesh pricking his skin. Eliza laughed with glee, the sound drawing in more spirits. More and more, writhing bodies of the dead, touching her hair, her arms, their diaphanous faces holding looks of rapture.
“Iosa Criosd.” Though he had not done since he’d been fully human, he crossed himself. And she did not push the spirits away, but opened her arms to embrace them all. A terrible fear that they would claim her as one of their own swamped him. One that increased when her eyes turned mirrorlike. Possessed.
“Eliza,” Adam shouted, lunging forward, though he knew he was too far away. “No!”
Adam’s palms grew damp, his grip on his sword’s hilt slipping, his heart pounding against his ribs. Transfixed as he was, he didn’t see the movement to his right until the fae was almost on top of him, scythe already swinging to slice off Adam’s head.
Adam blocked with the flat of his sword, the impact vibrating through his bones. The fae was enormous, stronger than hell. And fast. The fae’s strikes were a blur of movement. Sweat bled into Adam’s eyes as he parried and riposted.
This was no ordinary fae but a trained assassin. And his weapon no ordinary scythe, or Adam’s sword would have sliced through it like parchment. Trepidation took hold of Adam’s gut. He was no match against such things, and so he put all his strength into his next swipe, angling the sword for the killing blow.
Wrong angle and too hard a strike. For when their weapons clashed again, they both snapped in half, sending sparks shooting into the sky. The fae’s scythe fell from its handle just as the long blade of Adam’s sword clattered to the ground.
Adam felt the loss like a stab to the heart. But he wasted no time and, flipping the weapon in his hand, he smashed the blunt end of the hilt into the fae’s nose.
Cartilage crunched, blood poured. The fae bared his back fangs and pulled another sword from behind his back. Another fae weapon, and one headed for Adam’s gut.
In the near-distance, Eliza’s horrible laugh turned into a scream, straight from hell.
The fae glanced back, his face leaching of color. The ungodly sound coming from Eliza had frozen them both in shock.
Adam recovered first and, putting all his strength behind the action, thrust the broken end of his sword into the fae’s chest.
At the same moment, Eliza turned, her arms outstretched, her mouth agape – that never-ending scream ringing out in the night. Spirits swarmed around her in a maelstrom. Eliza’s odd, reflective gaze landed on the fae, and as if commanded, the spirits moved as one, flying over the field, coming straight at Adam and the fae warrior.
Terror punched into Adam’s heart, even as a blast of breathtaking power knocked him back on his arse. He landed with teeth-rattling force.
As for the fae, he burst into a cloud of grey ash, the remnants of Adam’s sword clattering to the ground. As if waiting until the fae was truly destroyed, Eliza gave one last, rasping cry and then dropped in a heap of white gown and tangled limbs.
Strong arms held her tight, warding off the chill in the air. Eliza’s cheek was pressed against the fragrant heat of male skin. Adam’s neck. She knew his scent, the exotic spice of it, tinged with something like crisp apples and smoky autumn leaves. She burrowed closer, inhaling and feeling safe.
“Eliza?” His whisper held a hint of worry, and fear.
Only then did she open her eyes. She lay cradled in his lap, as wisps of fog dissipated around them. “Why,” she rasped, “are we sitting in a field?”
Deep grooves bracketed Adam’s mouth. But he answered lightly enough. “Oh, I thought we might take in the night air.”
With a huff, she sat up, but quickly grabbed hold of the front of his shirt when her head swam with dizziness. Instantly, he pulled her back down into the crook of his arm where she could hear his heart beating steady and strong. “Easy, lass.”
His big hand covered the back of her head. Gently, he ran his fingers through her hair. “You were walking in your sleep,” he murmured.
Eliza tensed. And his touched grew firmer, reassuring.
“What did I do?” she forced herself to ask. And hated the way he stiffened, his breath drawing in as if he were struggling to find an easy answer. Eliza closed her eyes, her fingers curling into his linen shirt. “Did someone die?”