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palm. She swiped at her eyes, stared at Mús, and begged God for mercy.
    A burst of blinding white light followed by a cloud of impenetrable black smoke filled the cave; she bit her tongue to stop the threatening sobs of relief. When the dense fog cleared, there lay her half brother, Ciárrán, the sword implanted between his right ribs.
    Panic prickled like knives digging into her spine at his shallow breathing and the gray cast to his complexion. His chest barely rose and fell, and scarlet drops of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He faded fast.
    She grasped the sword’s jeweled hilt and pulled, keeping the pressure even but firm. The moment the blade cleared Ciárrán’s flesh, blood spewed in a wide arc. Wet splashes flicked her cheeks; she did not dare hesitate but placed both hands on the wound and pressed down. At once sharp lances of pain wracked her body. Her palms burned. Closing her eyes against the violent spinning of the cave, she recited the Lord’s Prayer, chanting the verses over and over.
    “Loki’s toes. What do you do, woman?” The Viking gripped her shoulders.
    “Nay. Leave me,” she croaked as the darkness descended. Nyssa fell forward covering Ciárrán’s wound with her belly. Aware, but unable to move, she let the heaviness sink through her and into Ciárrán.
    Dusk had fallen when she was finally able to lift her lids.
    The Viking had kept the fire stoked, and the cave radiated warmth. He was garbed in a fresh tunic and shiny leather boots.
    She pushed off the ground and looked at her half brother. His cheeks held a twinge of color, and he breathed easier.
    The Viking’s stare bore into the back of her head or so it felt.
    She bent to Ciárrán’s side and inspected the wound. An angry welt the length of her hand was all that remained of the injury. His flesh held a chill.
    “He needs a blanket. Will you spare him yours?” Nyssa met the icy gaze of the warrior. She had not had the time to inspect the treasures in his iron chest, but had glimpsed a fine length of cloth of a deep heather hue.
    In answer he jutted a chin to her left. “I did not want to disturb your healing else I would’ve covered you both.”
    She glanced down to find he had piled two thick woolen lengths, a fresh tunic and hose, at her side. “My thanks both for the clothes and for leaving us be.”
    Nyssa covered Ciárrán from neck to toes, curling the fabric under his shoulders and feet, and then pulled the tunic over her head. Her legs were cold, and the woolen hose warmed by proximity to the fire proved a delicious slice of paradise. The actions drained the last of her reserves. She curled into a ball beside her brother, rested her hand on the welt, and focused on the Viking.
    Their stares met.
    “I left you with a cat and returned to find a warrior in your embrace.” The grim line of his mouth left no doubt of his anger and irritation.
    “Ciárrán is both Mús and my half brother.” She had not the strength for deception.
    In the midst of whittling a weathered branch, the Viking paused, fixed her with a hard stare, and raised a brow.
    She wriggled her shoulders under his relenting gaze. “Aegir cursed his wife, Rán, and any spawn born of her tryst with my Da—me. Mús challenged Aegir, and the god changed him into a mountain lion. Rán gave Ciárrán a day each season to return to human form to try to break Aegir’s curse. He used one the day he found me on the beach…I know not if this counts as another. I fear he will ne’er be free again.”
    Bile filled her mouth, and she could not force the words as memories of that terrible time swamped her mind.
    “’Tis clear Mús was not the victor.”
    “Nay. No mortal can claim victory o’er a god. I tried to stop him, but my fool of a brother threw me aside.”
    Ciárrán shifted, his fingers twitched and curled.
    Nyssa rose on her elbows. Ciárrán’s hooked claws had appeared. He would not remain in warrior form for much longer. “Rán