Page 26 of Of Sword & Silver

“It’s probably birds—” I stop speaking nearly immediately. It’s not birds, not at all.

8

THE SWORD

Luminous emerald eyes focus solely on Kyrie, who watches the beast right back. It’s nearly the size of the mule, with black tufted ears and a thick grey-brown pelt and paws the size of the prints around our tent last night.

A direcat.

“Do not move,” I hiss out.

The woman hates to listen to me as much as I hate to hear her, but I hope for both our sakes’ she does as I say this once. It would be a tragedy to get this close to my goals only to have a direcat snuff her out.

The direcat continues stalking towards us, long whiskers twitching as it tests our scents.

Kyrie remains blessedly still, and the direcat doesn’t stop, one paw in front of the other, the ringed tail flicking backing and forth.

My breath catches, an emotion I haven’t felt in a very, very long time sending a single shiver down my back: awe.

The direcat regards me with one baleful look, mouth half open and showing off three-inch-long incisors.

Unpredictable creatures.

Beautiful, magnificent even, but entirely too fickle for my tastes. It makes perfect sense that the beast is drawn to Kyrie, though.

I frown.

It’s thin, too thin, its ribs showing as though it’s been months since it had a good meal, and for the first time since I met the woman, fear stakes through my heart on her behalf. My shoulders tense, my body ready to protect her even if my mind grapples with the idea.

The cat is nearly soundless on the snow, and it’s that, more than anything else, that sets my mind at ease.

If it were truly intent on eating her, it would be silent.

We wouldn’t have heard it moments before it appeared.

“Don’t hurt it.” Kyrie’s eyes are glassy, and she sheathes her daggers. “It’s not going to attack us.”

I tilt my head. I knew that, of course. I haven’t spent a lifetime around the Fae gods’ playthings only to fail at understanding them now.

The question is, how did she surmise that?

The great direcat sniffs at her head, then knocks the hood from it with a push of its nose. Kyrie’s stock still, and the whites of the mule’s eyes show as it likewise freezes in place in pure fear.

Neither move as the direcat continues to scent her, then nearly pushes her over as it rubs its cheek across her shoulder.

Marking her.

If there were any doubt left in my mind about Kyrie’s fate, it vanishes now, and I’m sick with the knowledge of it.

She is the chalice’s chosen. The direcat’s mark, a sign of the wild goddess Dyrda’s approval, puts that beyond a doubt.

I suspected it. Dreaded it.

Tested it, with my questioning—which she answered truthfully, unthinking, naïve.

But the direcat’s presence, its fascination with her… it means there are more gods at play than I originally thought. My heart hammers against my chest.

“We need to move more quickly.”

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