Page 42 of A Court of Ravens
Then his hand brushes mine, his intent clear. “Dance with me, Shadow Witch.”
I blink at him, suddenly hyper-aware of my two left feet. “I don’t even know what they’redoing.”
“It’s acéilí,” he says, already pulling me up with a confidence I wish I could steal. “Follow my lead.”
Against all odds, I do. And shockingly, I don’t hate it. Niall’s hand on my back guides me through spins and steps I didn’t know I could pull off.
“This isn’t so bad,” I say, breathless from spinning, laughing, and the joy of letting go.
His grin is impossible to resist. “You look surprised.”
“Not when I’m with you,” I admit.
His expression softens for a fleeting moment, but then the air shifts. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
I raise a brow, masking my apprehension with a crooked smile. “Please don’t say it’s a secret wife stashed away somewhere.”
He chuckles. “No, nothing like that.”
“Then what?”
“Maybe it’s better if I show you. Will you walk with me?” Niall asks, his eyes searching mine.
Despite the warmth of the pub and the flush in my cheeks from dancing, a chill snakes down my spine. Liora’s warnings resurface, but I nod. “Sure. Let’s walk.”
As we weave through the crowded room, Niall leads the way to pay the tab. The music cuts off abruptly, and all conversation halts as the pub door swings open. Everyone stares at the construction worker I saw earlier talking to Mr. Archer, who stumbles through the crowd, his head gushing blood. His face is streaked with more blood and panic.
“We’re plagued by the púca,” he cries, setting off a wave of whispers and hurried exits.
Superstition takes hold of the room. A few fearful locals say it’s a dark omen. I hear it then, a whisper in the back of my mind.Gnáthmharfóirí.The syllables are foreign, but the meaning…I canfeelit. Something iswrong.
Niall’s hand tightens around mine in a silent agreement to dig deeper. We cross the room together, every step heavy with purpose.
“What happened?” I ask, my voice steady, though my instincts are already on edge.
The man slumps into a chair, his bloodied hand trembling as he grabs a napkin. “I was working at the site when a púca charged me. Then it spoke and threatened me.”
I tilt my head, reaching for the notepad in my bag. “A talking púca, huh? You’re sure it wasn’t just a horse?”
“Horses don’t talk,” Niall deadpans, his tone as sharp as the tension crackling between us.
“What exactly did it say?” I press.
The man dabs at his wound, his gaze flickering nervously. “I…I don’t remember. Just that it threatened me. Then I tripped and hit my head.”
“A púca threatened you?” Niall repeats, his scepticism as blatant as mine.
The man shifts in his seat, his story cracking at the edges. “Aye. Then he charged me. There was nothing I could do.”
“And yet, you don’t remember its threat?” I ask, keeping my face neutral.
His silence stretches too long. He’s lying. I can feel it.
Niall crosses his arms. “Funny thing about púcas,” he says, his voice like velvet laced with steel. “They only show themselves when they have a reason. So what’s yours?”
The man’s eyes dart away, guilt scrawled across his blood-streaked face. Whatever he’s hiding, it’s something big. Something dangerous.
“He mentioned sacred land,” the man blurts, finally tossing us a scrap of something that might have been useful—if his credibility hadn’t packed its bags and skipped town. “Aye, that’s what he said to me.”
