It was all there, in her mind, what was happening, but like a jigsaw the pieces were separate, were not connecting to make the whole picture clear.

On she ran, towards Israfil’s chambers.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR: DREM

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

DREM

It’s Fritha! Tears burned his eyes, the sense of betrayal hot as bile in his throat.

Not abducted by them, or experimented upon and mutilated by them. She is one of them! Has been one of them all along.

I am the world’s greatest fool.

‘It is Fritha,’ he whispered, more in control, now, at least enough to not hurl himself from the roof in an attempt to kill the deceitful, lying witch.

What part did she play in my da’s death? Was it her that hit me? Took the sword? She certainly has it now.

He felt his body tense again, but controlled himself. He was not about to commit suicide when the chance of justice or vengeance was so slim.

Wait, bide my time. Be the hunter Da taught me to be. But know this, Fritha – for what you’ve done, I will kill you.

She raised the black sword.

‘Fuil agus cnámh, rud éigin nua a dhéanamh,’ Gulla cried, voice filling the clearing.

‘Blood and bone, to make something new,’ Sig whispered beside him.

A silence in the clearing.

‘Do it,’ Gulla snarled.

And Fritha cut Gulla’s throat, his two half-breed children stepping forwards and helping her catch the slumping body, heaving it limp onto the table, on top of the still-twitching bat. Fritha sheathed her black sword and reached into some kind of bag at her feet.

‘This cannot be?’ Sig muttered besides Drem. ‘What are they doing?’

Fritha held something aloft, what looked like a severed hand, fingers bunched into a fist, although it was dark and gleaming, and clearly heavy. She brandished it for all to see, a ripple of muttered awe escaping those gathered before her.

‘Fola agus cnámh an Asroth,’ Fritha cried out, and cast whatever it was onto the entwined corpses of Gulla and the bat.

‘Dear Elyon above, no,’ Sig whispered.

‘What?’ Drem hissed.

‘Blood and bone of Asroth,’ she breathed. ‘It’s Asroth’s hand.’

‘Bheith ar cheann, a bheith rud éigin nua,’ Fritha cried out, the crowd before her joining their voices to hers, ringing out in the winter’s night. The two corpses on the table convulsed and heaved, limbs and wings entangling, spasming, merging, flesh softening as if they were melting together, their mixed blood bubbling and seething.

‘Become one, become something new,’ Sig intoned.

Steam spread out from the entwined bodies on the table, a great cloud boiling out and settling upon the clearing. There was a squelching sound, a series of violent cracks ringing out, and then, slowly, the mist evaporated and a silence fell.

We should get out of here, now, Drem thought. While all are focused on this dread act.