As awareness deepened, I realized there were hands on my shoulders, and a voice, urging me to be calm even if he seemed far from it.

I drew in a shuddery breath and said, “It’s okay. I’m okay. Everything’s okay.”

“No, it’s fucking not,” a harsh but familiar voice said. “Move, and I’ll shoot you both.”

Vincentia.

Fuck.

“Shoot either of us,” Cynwrig said, “and you will regret it.”

Though his voice was flat and without emotion, once again the air around him crackled, and his fury was so strong, I could taste it. He squeezed my shoulder, his gaze telling me to remain still, then carefully shifted around, straddling my legs so that he faced her while shielding me from her sight and actions.

“And how to you reckon that?” Her voice—and no doubt her expression—was filled with sarcasm. “I’m merely using reasonable force to protect myself against intruders in my own home.”

I was tempted to lean sideways and look at her, but it was better if she thought me out to it. Besides, unless I put all possible energy into calming the horrid racing of my heart, I wouldn’t be able to react if she did do more than merely threaten us.

“Shooting us dead will land you in prison,” Cynwrig growled. “Which is where you’ll no doubt end up anyway, given your failed kidnapping attempt and your involvement in several murders.”

“Oh, I don’t want either of you dead. But maimed? That’s definitely appealing.” This time, the sarcasm was mixed with amusement. “While I can’t deny the failed kidnapping—though I am curious as to how you knew it was me—I’m not involved with Aunt Meabh’s murder. I’m hurt you could even think that, Bethany.”

Meaning I’d been right—Aunt Riayn had called her almost as soon as we’d gotten out of the gate. If she truly wasn’t involved, it was the only way she could have known about Mom.

I carefully released the knives and then, with small movements I prayed she wouldn’t see past the wall of protection that was Cynwrig’s torso, tucked the Eye into my bra. There was no way I could let her see it; it was better for all of us if she—and the people she worked for—thought it lost. Then I pressed my hand against my chest in a useless attempt to slow my racing heart and rapid breathing. Moisture continued to seep down my stomach, and there was a wispy ache under my ribs. I couldn’t help but wonder if the action of drawing the Triune into my body on the metaphysical plane had somehow transferred to the physical. It sure as hell felt like it, even if there wasn’t the level of pain I’d have expected from being stabbed. But then, I’d stabbed myself while helping out in the tavern’s kitchen once; the wound had been fairly deep, but I’d simply bandaged it, shoved on a glove, and kept going. It hadn’t hurt until hours later, when the food prep had been completed and the shock had worn off.