Emery stood rooted to the ground, staring at the hand stretched out toward her, the man attached to it. He said he was her father . . . and yet, he wasn't the father she'd thought he was. She realized, standing there, that she had no real sense of who he was. He'd never been a large part of this life, the one she'd thought she was living, and she couldn't recall anything at all about the life Cathbad had told her she'd lived . . .

"You fell out a window," she said, recalling what the druid had told her. "Is that right?"

Forgall's stoic expression didn't change, and yet Emery thought she sensed a coldness, perhaps a flicker of displeasure, behind the deep, colorless eyes. He slowly lowered his hand. "You don't remember it . . ."

The girl turned her head a bit, looked at him sideways. Was he asking her a question? Or were his words a statement? She didn't understand enough to respond.

"Whatever you think you know, Emer, whatever lies you've been told by whomever's approached you--it's all beguilement. I've kept you safe, daughter. I still intend to keep you safe. You're precious to me, and I will allow no man to harm you."

Emery was uncertain at the truth of his words, but something about him sat ill within her. "You're a man, aren't you? Can you keep me safe from yourself?"

That drew clear displeasure from him. He almost stepped forward, but the woman at his side put an arm out and held him back. "Forgall, love, let me talk to her, mother to daughter."

"No . . ." Emery might have been unsure of her relationship with the man, but she was absolutely positive this woman was not her mother. "I'm not your daughter. I won't listen to you."

"Oh, but you will, darling," she replied, moving slowly, sinuously through the undergrowth, almost as if she slithered toward the girl rather than walked. Emery had never noticed before, but this woman was stunning. Her eyes were a strange pale yellow--even in the darkness, they glowed like a cat's eyes--and her hair was thick and dark and curly; in the rain it glistened rather than flattened. She had a face like ivory, or bone, and a pouting little mouth with ruby lips. Even her hands, stretching their narrow pointed fingers, held a sort of spidery loveliness. Had she always worn long dresses, like this? Long and dark with trailing sleeves and a plunging neckline . . . How had she never really known what this false mother looked like? All the years she thought she'd lived with this woman, and now she couldn't even properly visualize what she'd been.

"Don't come any closer," Charlie intervened, stepping in front of Emery, who'd not asked for help but was grateful anyway, especially considering what had just happened between them.

Though she stopped, the woman's smile only sharpened. "You are adorable," she directed to Charlie, crossing one arm over her chest and raising the other's hand up under her chin. "I do wish Emer had taken to you; it would've made things so much easier. But ah, well, what can be done?" She flicked out the fingers of her raised hand in mock defeat, then drew them together as if holding the stem of a flower between them, and Charlie suddenly crumpled to the ground, gasping in pain.

Emery dropped down beside him in alarm, talked to him, tried to ascertain what was wrong, but Charlie had folded into himself and, while cognizant, was in too much pain to speak to her. "What did you do to him?" she cried, gripping Charlie's shoulder.

"I'll do more, if you continue to disobey your father," replied the woman sweetly, as if they were discussing nothing more than the weather. Then she turned back toward Forgall and left Charlie doubled over in his agony.

"Stop it! Please--please! I'll--I'll go with you. Just don't hurt him anymore!"

The man and woman looked to one another and grinned, spoke inaudibly for a moment, taking their time, much to Emery's fury. "Come to me," Forgall demanded, "and your friend won't suffer more."

"You'll be all right," the girl told Charlie, although his eyes were closed tightly against whatever torture he endured. "I'm sorry!" She stroked his forehead with the back of her hand and rose, stifling tears. She just wanted this to stop. If this man really were her father, misguided or not, he couldn't want to hurt her--hadn't he apparently done all these things to help her? So she approached Forgall, whose smirk was nearly unbearable, and the moment she reached him, he shot out a hand and seized hold of her wrist, tightening his grip so that she cringed in pain. But she was not to be deterred. "Now help him!"

Forgall, having gotten what he wanted, nodded to the woman, who held out her hand, palm-down, and moved it in a circle. Charlie's body immediately untensed itself, stopped trembling, and lay still.

Emery sniffed, watched her friend in the darkness, looked for any sign of life. "He's not--not dead, is he?"

"Gods, no!" The woman laughed a voluptuous laugh. "He'll wake soon enough."

"Enough of this," Forgall hissed. "We must go. Cuchulain's on his fool's errand, but I won't risk any more arrivals through that portal. We'll--"

"He's back," Emery spat the moment her father started to pull her along.

Forgall turned to his daughter, eyes savage under his heavy brow, his shock of thick gray hair. "What did you say?"

"Cullen. He's back. I've seen him. And he's on his way to us right now. Once he finds you, he'll kill you, I'm sure. Isn't that where he went--to be trained by the greatest warrior? You sent him, didn't you? Well, I've seen him, father, and he's coming for you." Unsure why she was touting the abilities of the warrior who'd caused all her troubles to begin with, Emery felt more animosity toward this false father than toward even Cullen, in that moment.

Forgall yanked his daughter right up into his face, grimacing. "You dare to threaten your father? Ungrateful, dissolute wench! You think there's no price to pay for your disloyalty? For your wantonness?"

Emery couldn't comprehend the severity of his accusations. She wanted only to wipe the spittle from her cheeks.

"Let me calm her, Forgall."

That was the woman, and Emery immediately began to protest, to struggle against her father. She'd seen what the witch had done to Charlie and didn't want to end up prostrate on the ground along with him. Forgall, too, started to argue, but before any of them could do much of anything a swift whisper of something slicing through the air reached their ears, and without any other warning, the woman's body flew backward against a tree, a huge sword pinning her belly to its trunk. She clutched at its slippery blade for a few seconds, her eyes and mouth widening, black blood and rainwater running between her fingers, but then she fell slack.

Emery froze, as did Forgall for a brief moment; the two of them peered into the night-dark trees, their panting breaths unseemingly loud, seeking someone they both feared. But sensing no immediate movement, Forgall suddenly pulled Emery against him, her back to his chest, his strong arm securing her. She might've fought, but his other hand had a sharp object at her throat so quickly that she had no time to do so.

"Come out!" Forgall shouted into the damp, misty woods, the sound incongruous against the hush. "I know it's you, Cuchulain; I swear to you I'll slit her throat unless you show yourself!"

Emery could feel the blood pumping through her, rushing in her head. And every time she pulsed with fear, the sharp object at her throat pinched closer. She didn't doubt this man would kill her, father or not, but she was too terrified to move. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the woman hanging on a tree, only her white skin clear in the murk and moisture, and on the ground lay Charlie, hopefully still alive and breathing. The trees were innumerable, too thin to hide much and still a maze of trunks and branches. If Cullen were out there--and who else could it be?--Emery was certain they'd hear before they saw him, and yet, from the dark shadow beyond, a silent figure emerged as if a ghost, as quietly as an apparition.

He did resemble an apparition, to her, identical to the Cullen in her vision in all his attire and severity, but now the darkness muted his color, the scant moonlight filtering through the mist limned him in an eerie light. His eyes burned with intensity in his otherwise obscured face, and Emery felt the man holding her shudder, which gave her hope.

"Stop!" Forgall cried. "Stay where you are."

Cullen did as he was asked, holding himself in what appeared to be a relaxed state, though even in her paralysis, Emery felt a frightening rage emanating from him, practically heating the softly falling rain.

"Are you not dead, then, Forgall?" There was an edge of sarcasm to his words, and something fluttered inside Emery at the sound of his strong, deep voice.

Forgall snorted bitterly. "As you see."

"That was quite a fall," Cullen added, not moving an inch, his eyes unblinking.

"And didn't you rejoice at my death, even as you stole my daughter out from under me! You're a damned man, Cuchulain, for your crimes--"

"This curse was your doing, then?"

"The witch's magic . . . my design."

For a moment, Cullen stood quiet, Forgall and Emery stood quiet, in a strange, tense standstill. The girl was wrought with emotion, not knowing what result she wanted from all of this. She certainly didn't want to go with Forgall or feel that knife at her throat slip any farther, but she was frightened of Cullen, as well, and hated her position of vulnerability, of powerlessness.

"What is it you want?"

The man behind Emery breathed heavily, his breaths puffing into clouds around the two of them. "I want you to suffer, intensely. I want to see you begging for your life, but as I know yours isn't precious to you, I at least want to see you begging for hers. On your knees, face in the ground, heart pouring out in front of you, and then when you're at your worst, I want to see your grief when I cut her open right here, for you to watch the blood drain out of her body into the mud."

A chill swept over Emery. This man was serious; she could tell. He'd kill her right there, just to make them suffer. But why? Why was he so hateful?

Cullen took his time in responding. Emery wondered whether he was calculating or whether he was just naturally slow to speak. Would he actually get down on the ground and beg for her to be spared? She couldn't picture such a man begging for anything. But when he did reply, his tone low and murderous, he deflected Forgall's demand. "You'd kill your daughter, to exact your vengeance?"

Forgall's breathing became ragged. Emery sensed he took umbrage at the accusation. "I'd do far more to see you in anguish, treacherous as you are . . . She's dead to me, anyway, she who'd forsake the one who raised her!"

For the first time since stepping out of the trees, Cuchulain looked away from Forgall and Emery, toward the ground, and shifted his weight a bit, put a hand to his empty scabbard. "Whatever you do to her, you won't leave here alive. I'll make sure you're dead, this time."

Emery's heart leapt to her throat as the man at her back pressed the dagger just so much harder against her neck, made to use her as a shield and a threat. She tried to pull away from him as much as she could, turned her head all the way into the crook of his elbow, but he held her firm, and she knew from the sting that the blade had begun to pierce her skin. "It's worth watching you suffer," Forgall hissed, his breath harsh against Emery's ear, and in that brief moment, she looked to Cullen as he lifted his gaze and caught her eye. Instantly, she knew she had to act, that this man wasn't going to stop pressing and that Cullen needed a clearer shot at him before he'd throw any weapon, that he'd not risk hurting her.

She had to take the chance.

Twisting her head toward the dagger just enough to gain a purchase on Forgall's bare forearm, Emery gasped in pain as the blade pushed into her, but at the same time, she bit down as hard as she could, tasted the man's blood in her mouth. She kept hold as he roared at the shock and shoved her to the ground, where she spit out a sizable piece of his flesh. The instant she was away from him, hardly before she'd even fallen to her knees, Emery caught sight of Cullen moving so quickly that the spear was off his back and in Forgall's chest before she'd even really seen him take hold of and throw it. The force of the blow sent the man flying several yards away, crashing into the undergrowth.

Shaking uncontrollably, whether from shock or relief or pain or damp, Emery managed to put a hand to her neck and, looking at her fingers as she drew them away, saw them black-red with blood.

He was at her side, then, Cullen--one arm around her waist to hold her off the ground, his other hand tearing some fabric from her shirt and pressing it to her throat. He said nothing, only gazed down at her, his features severe, his eyes full of concern, and Emery shut herself into darkness, unable to bring herself to look at him. She no more wanted to be in his arms than in her father's, though for very different reasons.

Raising a hand, she pushed Cullen's away from her wound and took hold of the bunch of fabric he'd held there. "I-I'm fine." She tried to back away from him.

"You aren't," he insisted.

"Don't touch me!" Emery cried, then winced at the pain of her effort. "It-it's not that deep."

He appeared uncertain how to respond to her; a strange, inscrutable distance crept into his hard eyes, his firm frown, but he acquiesced, gently sliding his arm out from under her and rising to his feet. Emery stood as well, steadying herself against a tree. She was frustrated at the way Cullen watched her, as if she were an injured child, but he soon turned away and moved in the direction of Forgall's body.

To make sure he's dead, Emery thought. She leaned against the rough bark, feeling the rain seep down into her collar and re-soak her jeans as it began to pick up again. A sudden cry of pain startled her, but she knew it'd come from Forgall and not from Cullen and was relieved. The scream dwindled into a low groan, and then there was silence, again. Her father, that man she'd called father--there was no way he was alive, this time. He'd called her disobedient, wanton, said she'd betrayed him. And he'd said Cullen was damned, that he was treacherous. What had they done, the two of them, to warrant such harsh words?

Charlie! She'd forgotten Charlie. Turning toward where his body had been, Emery was horrified to find that it was no longer there. Could she possibly be looking in the wrong direction? She glanced roundabout, turning her whole body, as it hurt too much to twist her neck, but Charlie was nowhere to be found. And even more disturbing, when she looked to where the witch had been, all that remained of her was the blood on Cullen's glittering sword, plunged deep into the tree where it'd pegged the woman, whose body was no longer there.