Fierce Dawn (43 page)

She might’ve stamped the grassy dirt, but to what good?

“I feel something terrible may have happened,” Breanne said. “Or will. If you’d seen him, you’d not be sitting there as though you haven’t a care in all the world. You’d be after him and frightened.” Breanne’s voice rose with each word, but the cat wouldn’t stop looking so damned unaffected or take her seriously.

“He said tonight, but I am not sure he knew what he was saying. I will not be surprised if I come tonight, assuming I am able to sneak away with all the clansmen underfoot, only to find the forest empty.”

“The grove is never empty,” Finn said, his gaze fixed in the air rather than on her, tail swishing arrogantly.

Breanne blew a stray hair from her brow. “You know that I mean--Heremon not present. I canno’ believe he knew what he was saying, not with the way he said it. Had you not wandered, you’d have seen with your own eyes.”

She jutted her chin upward and trounced after the old sage, telling herself that something was very wrong and he needed her. And if she happened to secure a quick tutorial on the five herbals, secrets that would potentially--finally--unlock her own potential, all the better.

The idea quickened her pulse. Her long formed hope to practice true magick had recently taken on a desperate feel. Instead of sheer excitement over dreams of the magickal and wondrous accomplishments, the threat of an uncertain future loomed like a hungry wolf in a dark corner where light used to shine.

Heremon’s path wove in and around pine and the occasional blessed oak tree, deeper into the forest, toward the coast. Her worry grew as her irritation with Finn dissipated. She wished she’d grabbed the cat. She could have snatched him up and under her arm without a scratch in seconds. If she had, she’d now be happily arguing with him instead of fighting to keep prickling fear at bay.

She’d not taken this path before. She knew where Heremon lived, in theory, knew the lay of the land she’d been born to and explored through to adult years. So there really was no reason to be frightened. And she had her sheathed boline dagger strapped to her thigh as well as the confidence to use it lethally if necessary.

Thinking of the blade and imagining lifting her skirt, retrieving it, and slashing through whomever or whatever happened upon her in the dense foliage, worsened the quiver in her veins. She stopped her careful tracks and palmed the sharp weapon, paying no mind to her fingers’ slight tremble. The action helped a bit, as did a long deeply indrawn breath and prayer to Morrigan.

Continuing after the trail of winding footprints and sunken moss spots that mapped Heremon’s path, Breanne’s fingers traced the carved pattern on the dagger’s handle. The side she felt held a pointy-tailed, horny dragon. A lion adorned the other side, but she needed the dragon, which represented the Otherworld, magick, to her. Mayhap its ever-elusive magick, a protection better than any man, would aid her.

The copse of pines and birch gave way and glimpses of ocean took the place of sky in the gaps between them. Breanne slowed her pace and realized how hard she was breathing. She paused at the edge of trees and caught her breath, scanning the open area for a dwelling. When she found none she stepped further, feeling exposed but alone, and followed the remaining marks Heremon left behind.

“Are you lost?” a whisper said.

Breanne swung about, weapon ready, shards of panic snapping through her. To the left, the right, her eyes shot. Nothing. Nothing more than the trees and grass and sounds of spring humming met her searching gaze.

A deep chuckle carried upward from her ankle and immediately Breanne’s fear changed to anger. “Finn! You scared me, you evil thing.”

A deeper, purring chuckle with no apology. “I couldn’t resist after watching you sneaking along with that ridiculous excuse for protection held like your life depended on it. Truly, Bree, if you’d seen yourself….” His chuckle broke into coughing guffaws.

Breanne could kick him, she really could, if not for the fact that he was stuck as a creature more helpless than she. And if she weren’t so nice a person as she was. Even so, the idea was worth fantasizing, however briefly and unrealistically as she could. Breanne dropped to the ground and wiped her sweaty brow, the boline forgotten.

“I swear I dream of the day that I will no longer be the source of your twisted amusem—.“

“Shh. Did you hear that?” Finn said, suddenly recovered and his ears pricked low.

Breanne frowned, listening. The distant rush and crush of waves below the cliff, the chirp of birds and crickets, leaves rustling behind, no more. Her eyes narrowed on Finn. Paying no mind to her skepticism, he crept forward, nearing the cliff.

Breanne watched and crouched lower herself, unwilling to move and risk the noise of her gown and limbs alerting someone or overbearing whatever the cat’s ears had picked up.

Finn inched closer to the perilously sharp, rocky edge. Breanne breathed shallowly and strained her senses to detect something, anything within the sunny, spring day around her.

He looked back at her then pranced sideways, arching his back. The hair along his spine stood up as he hissed at the cliff’s edge.

Breanne crawled as close to him as she could, without allowing the deathtrap waters to reach her line of sight, on her belly.

“What?” she whispered. “What do you see?” She couldn’t bring herself to look over the sharp edge.

He hissed again and she slammed her head to the ground, heart pumping, and ready to retreat back to the woods fast. She closed her eyes. Something touched her hair. She screamed out the last stitch of air in her lungs and blindly raced back to the woods.

Finn’s chortle of laughter brought her to a stony halt. She should have known. Not bothering to turn back around, she stormed through the brush and returned the way she had come. If she didn’t move fast, she might end up living out that kicking fantasy despite the threat of tumbling over the edge and plummeting into the bleak waters after him.

Although, he would be tumbling first.

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Irish Moon
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Acknowledgments
:

Fierce Dawn would not have been possible without the support of my family, encouragement of my peers and skills of my amazing editor. In particular, thank you Indie Book Collective for all your magic and support. Thank you Ann Charles for being the best laugh coach ever. Thanks to Karen Weirich for her ongoing support no matter what.

Additionally, I’d like to thank Chris and Vicky Ackerman for their help in fight sequences and overall enthusiasm over the premise.

Special thanks to Alyssa Willoughby, and Lyric Burt who read early drafts of Fierce Dawn. Lyric inspired the real Lyric.

I have the best fans in the world. Thank you so much HOT Club for being so damned cool!

~

Also by Amber Scott:

Irish Moon

Play Fling

Love Lust

Wanted

Jessie’s Girl

The Best Revenge

Coming Soon:

Enchanted Moon

The Sweetest Fling

Stealing Dusk

Soul Search

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Fierce Dawn

By Amber Scott

Copyright ©2011 by Amber Scott

Cover art by A.D. Holt

Tholden Press

Edited by Julie Murillo

Fierce Dawn
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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