Page 44 of Cathmoir's Sons

LAW

The singing sucks.

There are too many voices, too many unable to carry a tune. They claw at my eardrums. They keep me from hearing my mate’s sweet voice.

Luca nudges me with his shoulder. Stop whining, you’re giving me a headache.

The singing is giving me a headache.

The singing is beautiful, Luca grumbles back. The women of Bevington only sing this song to send one of their own off to the Mother. There are only a handful of men who have ever heard it. Count yourself lucky.

I’ll count myself lucky when they shut up.

The warbling trails off but then starts up again. Evidently, there’s another verse. With a groan, I put my head down, rest my chin on the carpet of pine needles, and fold my ears down with my paws. Muffled, the noise is slightly more bearable.

I wish I could get a recording of this, Luca thinks, his mental voice rhapsodic.

I’m tempted to swipe at him.

Before I do, the singing, mercifully, ends. There are some muffled sobs among the women who have gathered in a large clearing near Bevington. They have three bonfires going in the center of the clearing and small tents ringing the edge. I’ve already inspected the tent my mate is sharing with Jane Serpa, warded and scent marked it. I’m still not happy Kellan’s spending the night out here in the woods, away from the layers of wards that blanket Bevington, and thefurtherlayers of wards encircling Jane Serpa’s townhouse, many of which I’ve added since Jedburgh Abbey, but I’ve made it as safe as possible.

If I’m being fair, there are close to three hundred witches gathered in these woods tonight. Many of them teach at Bevington. Others are illustrious alumni. Anyone choosing to attack this circle would be exceptionally foolish and likely find themselves very dead. Or undead, depending on the whim of the numerous Necromancers here.

But I’m not feeling fair. I had to listen to my brother soothe and reassure our mate for an hour last night, while my own arms were cold and empty. I’ve seen no sign of Caileán since she dropped the monumental bomb that she’s kittering. I kept hoping as Kellan held me on her lap and read the story I dredged out of my worst memories that her eyes would flash blue or her feather cloak would rustle. But my words didn’t stir her fae blood. Afterwards, I could only leave as I’d agreed. Leaving my pregnant mate to go to bed alone and cry herself to sleep.

How can this be? Have the lies I told to keep her safe really brought us to this?

I can’t accept that.

I know I must be patient and persistent. I turn those words over and over in my heart whenever I’m tempted to storm Jane Serpa’s townhouse and demand Kellan forgive me. The Kiss Book was a good start. Luca speaking truthfully—if somewhat stingingly; Ididmourn our cousins who fell at the siege ofCait House—about me as he soothed Kellan last night couldn’t have hurt. But I can’t go another day without holding my mate, hearing her sweet words, and checking her scent for the first sign of our kit.

There are still a few women singing around the fire, including my mate, who is sitting twenty feet in front of me as Luca and I hide on the other side of the Veil at the treeline. I know this song. Surely not. I swivel my ears, listening. Yes, yes, it is. “Tears in Heaven” by Eric Clapton.

I can’t listen to this, Luca moans into my mind. I’m going to cry.

I chuff at him. We don’t cry in our Cait warrior forms. I’m not even sure we can.

Of course we can. Luca blinks rapidly at me. We still have tear ducts.

We’re Cait warriors. We don’t cry.

Although when I hear my mate’s soft voice singing that she must be strong and carry on, I might blink a little more rapidly than usual myself.

My mate and the group around her sing on, through songs I know and songs I don’t. Songs that are folksy and old. Songs that are newer and accompanied by strumming on guitars. “Let It Be” by the Beatles. “Slipping Planes” by Strange Potions. “You Can Close Your Eyes” by James Taylor. “Softly She Lies” by Pluto’s A Planet. “When I’m Old and Wise” by the Alan Parsons Project.

My mate sits close to Jane Serpa, sometimes with their arms around each other. Sometimes moving away to embrace other women and rock together as they sing. The bottles of wine and harder spirits being passed around the circle make the rocking more pronounced and the lyrics gently slurred.

The moon’s long set and the fires are guttering. I expect my mate to find her way to her tent along with many of the other women who have said goodnight and slipped off tosleep. Instead, she lingers by the fires. Her friend Rachel pulls Kellan to her feet and they sway together through “Salute to the Nymphs” by Mystic Tides. My mate sings with her head on the pink-haired Darkswerd’s shoulder. Surely, she’ll stumble off to bed when the song ends?

No, she merely trades partners. Teddy wraps her arms around my mate and they sway together while singing “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd. When their sweet voices soar together in the chorus, I find myself blinking hard again.

They sing on, sliding into “Everything I Own” by Bread with barely a pause. As the chorus begins, Teddy turns into the arms of a tall figure standing behind her, while another steps forward and draws Kellan into his arms.

I shoot up onto my paws. Luca’s beside me, shoulder-to-shoulder, in a moment. Then he relaxes and knocks me with his muzzle.

That’s Charlie Miller, Teddy Nowak’s husband, Luca thinks to me.

I don’t care who it is, he’s dancing with our mate, I snarl back.

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