Madeleine had asked plenty of questions, and none of the answers had made her life easier. “That was…probably a good idea.”

Connor sighed gustily. “And now you’re all mixed up in it. The hell happened at the cottage? Mud’s churned up at the back door. There’s hoof prints all over, and not from a cow or sheep.”

Asgall and Hæra, circling each other between vicious attacks. Madeleine couldn’t hide a shudder, and Connor’s eyes narrowed again.

“Jim had a look round,” he said. “Said one set of prints left from the back, and then another started from the front door. They both looked to be going east before the grass covered ’em.”

Both prints. Asgall had left from behind the cottage. Hæra must have followed later, but why in her Each-uisge form, especially when she was injured? Connor had said she healed quickly, but even so, why would she take such a risk? What would make her so desperate?

Jonathan was missing too.

The beach lay to the east.

Madeleine wrapped her arms around herself. Her clothes and hair were still damp, and the night wind was cold. There was no time to go back to the cottage and grab her jacket, the one with the torn shoulder, the one she hadn’t stitched up because it proved all of this was real.

“Do you know what’s going on?” Connor asked. “Do you know where they are?”

Madeleine’s mouth was dry. “I think so. But I have to hurry.” She glanced at the silhouette of Jonathan’s Vauxhall. “I need the car.” She certainly wasn’t jogging to the beach. Jonathan kept the car keys by the office door, and she’d had practice driving on the left side by now. “You should stay here,” she added.

Connor scoffed. “No fear. I’m worried about them, but I’m not a fool.”

“I am,” Madeleine snapped as she hurried toward the house. The last few months had given ample proof of that. How ironic: she was finally what Christ said everyone should be.

A fool for love.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The moment she’d submerged and changed her hind legs to a marine tail, a current had grabbed Hæra. It had wrapped around her like a rope and dragged her through the water, past rocks and kelp and schools of wondering fish.

The last time Hæra had taken this route, she’d been bruised in body and spirit, maimed by the betrayal of her family. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

At least this was faster. The witch’s cold current whipped Hæra forward so quickly that she closed her eyes against the water pressure. Her tail beat fruitlessly. But why resist? This was why she’d come.

Survival was an instinct. She’d have to suppress it shortly.