Page 86 of Fang & Fury

Gil nodded, reached out, and dragged the heavy leather-bound volume over. “Right … let’s take a look.”

Together, the four of them searched in silence, peering over Gil’s shoulders as he worked his way through it, turning each page carefully.

Each leaf was engraved with different sigils and marks: a tattooist’s handbook.

Ailsa was fascinated. There were so many designs. She thought she knew most of them, thanks to her apprenticeship—and her forced labor in Craeg Aonaranach—but she realized now just how limited her knowledge was.

Page by page, they leafed their way through the book, taking their time, being careful.

Halfway through, Mairead stiffened. “Wait.”

Ailsa and the others froze, leaning in, before the chief-sacrificer muttered, “No … that’s not it.”

Indeed, the tattoo—concentric circles linked by lines—was similar, yet lacked the barbs or the briar in the center.

“What’s that one for?” Ailsa asked.

“It’s ‘the wheel’,” Kayla replied. “Each spoke of it represents a different path.” She cut Mairead a sharp look. “Similar in shape … but not the sigil we’re looking for.”

But when they reached the last page, there was still no sign of the design.

Mairead snapped the book shut. “Cods! That was a waste of time.”

Kayla muttered an oath under her breath. “I told you, the bastard made it up.”

The druid’s lips pursed, although this time, she didn’t contradict her.

“If he invented the sigil, does that make the situation more complicated?” Ailsa asked, frowning.

“Well, it makes things more interesting.” Gil leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. His gaze flicked from Mairead to Kayla, and then to Ailsa. “Leave this with me … we’ve still got another two days before you depart. I’ll see what I can dig up before then.”

27: DONE HIDING

THE WHISTLE WHIPPED around the broch as Darach slipped from Duncrag.

He hadn’t told Ailsa or Kayla where he was going; they were likely still wrapped in furs in their sleeping nooks anyway, for dawn was only just breaking.

If this went well, he’d be able to fully control the beast. Ever since Ailsa’s encircling tattoo, he’d been able to choose when it emerged. But he needed to be in control after he shifted as well, to decide whom it savaged, and to change back when he wanted.

If he couldn’t, he’d always battle with the fucker.

Ailsa was right. The nature of what they struggled with was different. Every time the clag-doo rose, he felt as if he was locked in mortal combat, yet she simply let the bavaan take over.

He needed to be alone while he tested this though. He traveled on foot, leaving Rùn in the broch’s stables. He didn’t want the beast savaging his horse if this went ill.

The wind tugged at his clothing and whipped his hair around his face as he climbed the hills behind the fort, although his gaze fixed upon the sprawling oakwood to the northwest of Duncrag.

That would be where he’d do it.

A short while later, he reached the woods. His boots squelched over wet, boggy ground as he made his way into the trees. The oaks were still bare; winter held Albia in its grip. Yet the trees gave him much-needed privacy, all the same.

He was far enough away from Duncrag now.

Not a danger to anyone except himself.

He wove through the press of trees until he arrived at a mossy glade bisected by a tiny burn. There, shivering as the icy wind bit at his skin, he stripped off his clothing and pulled off his boots, leaving them upon a rotting log.

And then he stepped onto the soft bed of moss next to the burn and called the clag-doo.