Brighid's Quest

“You need a haircut,” she said.

His eyes widened in surprise before they narrowed into the flat, cynical expression that had overtaken his face in the past months. “I do not care about my hair.”

Huh, Brighid’s mind whirred. He was visibly shaken by a normal, personal comment. And something suddenly made sense to her. Everyone had been tiptoeing around Cuchulainn since Brenna’s death, treating him like he was a delicate egg that needed to be sheltered. Even the hybrids were careful with him—not expecting him to stay for dinner and most of the storytelling—allowing him to escape to his tent so he could brood alone. No wonder the joyous part of him had retreated. If she had a choice, she wouldn’t want to spend time with the black cloud that had become Cuchulainn, either.

“Obviously. Your hair looks awful,” she snapped. “You also need a shave and a change of—” she gestured at the stained kilt that was barely visible beneath the goat’s pelt he’d thrown over his shoulders “—whatever it is you claim to be wearing.”

“The more delicate aspects of a gentleman’s toilette have not been foremost on my mind these past cycles of the moon.” His voice was thick with sarcasm.

“Perhaps you’d like to reconsider that Goddess-be-damned attitude, boy.” The Huntress purposefully drew out the word. Granted, she was probably only a year or two older, but she drew her seniority around her like a rich cloak and sent the warrior a haughty look. “By this time tomorrow we’ll be entering Guardian Pass. The children, as admittedly annoying as they are, deserve our help greeting Partholon. Our