Page 59 of Mated to the Mad Marquess

Malcolm was too angry to be cautious. “What’d you do?” he demanded, his hands fisting at his sides. “Where’s Miss Zuma?”

Harrow’s eyes went glassy. “The girl is fine. More than fine. She’s got half the village disparaging me now. If the witch goes free that’ll be it for me. I’ll be ruined.”

Malcolm’s jaw set. His nails dug into the palms of his hands. “You came here to beg me to keep an innocent woman confined for what? Your blasted pride?”

“Not my pride.” Harrow rubbed a hand down his leathery face, stretching his lined skin. “For what’s best—”

“Don’t give me that tired line, Harrow, you fool. You don’t care what’s best for Reedlet. Sober up. Go home and start searching for a new post.” Malcolm couldn’t look at him anymore. Harrow was lucky there was no honor in hurting groselings, because he’d never wanted to hurt one more. “I have work to do here and no time for your nonsense.”

Malcolm stomped toward the tree line, nothing but heavy silence at his back. He left Harrow there to make his choice, but he wasn’t going to parent the foolish mortal. Harrow could go sober up at the fortress like a man with sense or keep sitting there, staring into space until the end of time, for all he cared.

As Malcolm neared the trees, shadows parted for him. Taking on the phantom would be easier than he imagined. The monster had been weakened greatly by the loss of the shadows Malcolm had reformed. Deeper into the forest he pressed. Sunlight streamed in through the canopy. The ground was littered with broken branches and impaled animal corpses.

He searched for the deep darkness, pulling the shadows out of his way so that the monster could not conceal itself from him. The deeper into the forest he traveled, the darker it became. Not all of the animals had been slain; he heard the chitter of squirrels and birds calling to each other.

He spotted the phantom then. It retreated from him rather than parting at his word. Malcolm pursued it, leaping over limbs, dodging low-hanging branches.

He heard movement and was certain another animal was prowling nearby, something with heavier steps. And then a weight crashed down on the side of his head and black spots popped before his eyes. The blow knocked him to the ground and dazed him.

Malcolm blinked up at the emerald canopy above him. His vision swam. The shadow before him came slowly into focus, but it wasn’t a shadow.

Harrow lifted the large tree branch and hit him once more. Malcolm blocked the blow with crossed arms. Harrow pulled a pistol from his pocket and trained the short barrel on the marquess’s face. The iron weapon was forbidden in the fae lands, but that didn’t stop the odd firearm from finding its way into the pockets of mortals, especially out in the country.

Solis pulled into Malcolm’s body. A touch of iron would destroy his vulnerable soul, and what if Harrow had gotten his hands on one of those sintered iron bullets? Hell, a lead bullet to his heart or in his head would kill him just the same.

Malcolm froze. His mind took ages to catch up with him. He hadn’t been expecting a person to follow him into the woods, had no idea Harrow would dare turn violent. He’d underestimated the mortal.

“Why?” Malcolm croaked and stars popped before his eyes.

“Because you’re the worst sort of lord,” he barked and the hand holding the weapon shook. “You’ve ruined me!”

“Gods, Harrow, put the blazing pistol down!”

“The worst,” he screamed, and the whites of his eyes shone wildly. “You neglect your duties in favor of wine and women. You’re the worst sort of scoundrel. You don’t even try to hide your whoring and debauchery and drunkenness, and you have the gall to lecture me about a little drink in my coffee! You’re no lord at all!”

In the distance, birds rustled in the branches and a hawk screeched. The scent of sulfur burned in the air. Solis cheered. Laughter rumbled out of Malcolm. The mirth made his head hurt. Something hot and wet slid down his temple from the new wound on the side of his head.

Harrow cocked the weapon and aimed it at his face. “What are you laughing at, damn you?”

“You got the jump on me, Harrow,” Malcolm said, “I’ll give you that. You’ve always been a good woodsman who knows these lands like the back of his hand. But you missed my mate.”

Harrow lifted his eyes just as Ezra swooped at his face. He fired off a wild shot. The bullet lodged into a tree, and bark flew.

Hrafn alighted from the branch overhead in her nighthawk form. Midair her wings came around her and she transformed. She landed on Harrow, taking him to the ground with her weight. Gripping him by his chin, she jerked his head to the side, and his spine snapped with an audible crunch. Light left his eyes and his body fell limp.

Hrafn took a stabilizing breath. Then she sidled over to Malcolm and extended a hand down to him. He stared at her a moment, convincing himself that she was actually there. That he wasn’t dead and dreaming peacefully amongst the stars.

If he was, he’d take it, frankly, so long as she was there too.

We’re alive,Solis shouted,now touch her!

He took her hand, her grip callused and familiar, and she helped him stand. Blood trickled from the fresh wound at his scalp and ran hot down his temple. He swayed on his feet, and she steadied him.

“Killed him with your bare hands. Not bad,” he said.

Hrafn scowled. “He deserved a slower death, but with a pistol in his hand, I didn’t want to take the chance.”

Malcolm’s cheeks hurt, his smile was so broad. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

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