I walked through the beautifully decorated castle, nodding to the Warriors who bowed respectfully to me, and thought about Stark, automatically picking up my pace. What was he thinking, dragging himself outside after what he'd been through?

Hell, I didn't know what he was thinking. He'd been different since we'd been back. Well, of course he's been different, I told myself sternly, feeling crappy and disloyal. My Warrior had made an Otherworld journey, died, been resurrected by an immortal, and then yanked back into a body that was weak and wounded.

But before then. Before we'd returned to the real world, something had happened between us. Something had changed for us. Or at least I'd thought it had. We'd been super intimate in the Otherworld. His drinking from me had been an incredible experience. It'd been more than sex. Yeah, it'd felt good. Really, really good. It had healed him, strengthened him, and-- somehow--it had fixed whatever had still been broken inside me, allowing my tattoos to return.

And this new closeness with Stark had made losing Heath bearable. So why was I feeling so depressed? What was wrong with me? Crap. I didn't know. A mom would know. I thought about my mom and felt an unexpected and terrible loneliness. Yeah, she'd messed up and basically chosen a new husband over me, but she was still my mom. I miss her, the little voice inside my head admitted. Then I shook my head. No. I still had a "mom." My grandma was that and more to me.

"It's Grandma I miss." And then, of course, I felt guilty because since I'd been back I hadn't even called her. Okay, sure, I knew that Grandma would feel that my soul had returned--that I was safe. She'd always been super intuitive, especially about me. But I should have called her.

Feeling really disappointed in myself and sad, I chewed my lip and wrapped the cashmere scarf around my neck, holding the ends close while I made my way across the moat-like bridge and the cold wind whipped around me. Warriors were lighting the torches and I greeted the guys who bowed to me. I tried not to look at the creepy impaled skulls that framed the torches. Seriously. Skulls. Like of real dead people. Well, they were all old and shriveled and pretty much meatless, but still, disgusting.

Keeping my eyes carefully averted, I followed the raised pathway over the boggy area that surrounded the land side of the castle. When I got to the narrow road I turned left. The Sacred Grove began just a little way from the castle, seeming to stretch endlessly into the distance on the other side of the street. I knew where it was not because I remembered being carried, corpse- like, past it on my way to Sgiach. I knew where it was because during the past weeks, while Stark had been recovering, I'd felt myself drawn to the grove. When I hadn't been with the queen, or Aphrodite, or checking on Stark, I'd been taking long walks inside it.

It reminded me of the Otherworld, and the fact that this memory comforted and creeped me out at the same time scared me. Still, I'd visited the Sacred Grove, or as Seoras called it, the Croabh, but I'd always come to it during daylight hours. Never after sunset. Never at night. I walked along the road. Torches lined the street.

They cast flickering shadows against the edge of the grove, lending enough light so that I could make out a hint of the mossy, magickal world within the boundary of ageless trees. It looked different without the sun making a living canopy of branches. It wasn't familiar anymore, and I felt a prickly sensation across my skin, like my senses were on super alert.

My eyes kept being pulled to the shadows within the grove. Were they blacker than they should be? Was there something not quite right lurking inside there? I shivered, and that's when a movement farther down the street caught at the edge of my vision. My heart skittered around in my chest while I peered ahead of me, half expecting wings and coldness, evil and madness ... Instead what I saw had my heart skittering for other reasons. Stark was there, standing in front of two trees that were twisted together to form one. The trees' interwoven branches were decorated with strips of cloth knotted together--some were brightly colored, some were worn and faded and tattered. It was the mortal version of the hanging tree that had stood before Nyx's Grove in the Otherworld, but just because this one was in the "real" world didn't mean it was any less spectacular. Especially when the guy standing in front of it, staring up at its branches, was wearing the earth- colored MacUallis plaid, in the traditional Warrior way, complete with dirk and sporran and all sorts of sexy metal-studded leather accoutrements (as Damien would say).

I stared at him as if I hadn't seen him for years. Stark looked strong and healthy and totally gorgeous. I was distracting myself by wondering what exactly Scottish guys did, or didn't, wear under those kilts when he turned to face me.