Kirin was mesmerised by the green eyes until the pupils flashed gold. The pleasant warmth under his hand turned into unbearable heat.
With a cry of pain, he stumbled back from the wall. The skin on his hand was red and blistered where the heat had seared it, but his disappointment when the surface before him turned back to cold stone felt worse than the burn.
He touched the stone again. It felt cold, wet, and solid, just as before. The source of magic on the other side was again just a distant sensation, as if something had closed between him and that other place he could no longer reach.
Nevertheless, he felt exhilarated and grinned. He got a patch of moss from the cave's entrance, pressed it on the palm of his hand, and bound it in place with a strip of leather before he set off on his long walk to the camp.
The injury was a small price to pay for all the wonders he had seen, and the right rhyme and rhythm would come. Humming a melody that was forming in his mind, he raised his uninjured hand and let the trace of the power he had absorbed from that raw magic flicker up. This was his proof that he had touched something no other witch had ever known.
If he were to set out early tomorrow, he could be home in six to seven days. Surely even the High Warlock would be persuaded to come back with him and investigate such a new source of magic.
Kirin was so busy with his plans that he realised the danger only when he smelled the smoke. Looking up at the sky before him, he could see grey clouds of dying fires coiling over the mine at the edge of the forest. Maybe something had gone wrong with the smelting oven again.
He hurried forward to help, then stopped in his tracks at the scene of complete devastation. The huts were burned to cinders. Corpses lay scattered all over the site.
Kirin shrank back and swallowed the bile rising in his stomach. Some of the bodies were charred beyond recognition, some cut into pieces. This was not what battle sounded like in songs. Then again, this had been no battle. It was just slaughter.
He looked around in despair and saw that the smelting oven was still standing, untouched. How was that possible? Where had all that fire come from, then?
A dreadful feeling crept up his spine, and he glanced at the palm of his hand. A fire out of nowhere. Had those beings he had seen come from the Otherworld to hunt humans for sport?
Even worse, were they coming back?
Hearing someone approach, Kirin instinctively hid behind the oven just before a figure on a horse appeared between the trees. The body seemed that of a tall man, but the hood of his green cloak obscured his features.
The rider dismounted and looked around. He turned the closest corpse over with his boot and crouched beside it. His metal-covered hand brushed the raw stump at the shoulder, where the arm had been severed. He picked up the limb next to the body, examined it, and cast it aside, before the metal on his hand turned to liquid, flowing back into a solid cuff on his wrist.
Kirin swallowed nervously. What kind of monster was this?
The being rose in one graceful move and raised its arms. Threads of golden energy burrowed into the earth. Kirin watched in horror as thick, gnarled roots burst from the ground like growling beasts, coiling around the remains of the dead. Within a heartbeat, they pulled the corpses under with a sucking, dragging sound.
Kirin's stomach turned in fear and disgust. He sent a prayer to his gods to protect him from this demon, but knew it was of no use. That metal on the monster's wrist looked the same as that worn by the riders from the cave. The gods had come down to Britain already, and they did not seem inclined to be merciful.
He crouched lower behind the oven, but it was too late. The hooded head turned sharply in his direction.
"Come out of there, little bird. You might burn your feathers."
The bard flinched. It was a rich, deep voice with a strangely melodious accent. It did not sound threatening, yet the mockery in it was unmistakable. He gritted his teeth and straightened. If he were going to die, he was not going to die as a coward. Gripping the hilt of his dagger, he stepped out and approached the demon.
"Who are you?" he growled, doing his best not to show his fear.
As if in answer, the being lowered the hood to reveal a cascade of chestnut brown hair and a face that was almost frightening in its perfection. Kirin looked into cat-like green eyes and froze.
He knew those eyes. It was that being who had attacked him with fire. Just as those miners had been attacked.
Anger overcame his fear. He drove his dagger forward, aiming below the ribs, but the demon simply shifted aside and struck his wrist with one sharp blow. The blade dropped from his hand with a dull thud. Kirin stumbled back, clutching his arm.
"Don't pull a knife if you don't know how to use it," the bastard told him and bent down to retrieve the dagger.
Seeing his chance, Kirin launched forward and hit him in the ribs. But just as he broke past him, the man's hand seized his arm and forced it behind his back. An iron grip clamped onto his shoulder.
"Wily little bird," the man hissed.
"I am not your little bird," Kirin growled.
He jerked his head back. There was a satisfying crack as his skull hit against bone. The grip loosened, but the feeling of triumph vanished instantly as his feet were kicked from under him. He desperately grasped for something to break his fall and caught the hem of the long green cloak.
The smug grin on the stranger's face faltered as he stumbled forward and lost his footing. Kirin hit the ground, bracing for the weight to follow. Instead, the man just dropped to his knees astride him. Before the bard could react, the man grabbed his arms and pinned them above his head.
Kirin was suddenly acutely aware of the strong thighs pressing against his hips, the firm chest pressing against his own. The demon's long hair brushed against his cheeks and neck. Despite the acrid smoke and the reek of blood around them, it smelled of spring meadows and cut grass. It felt strangely comforting.
The green eyes observed Kirin with the cold amusement of a wildcat toying with its prey. The full lips, inches away from his own, curled into a feral smile.
"I never said you were mine."